How great their work, how vast their charge!
Do thou their anxious souls enlarge;
Their best acquirements are our gain;
We share the blessings they obtain.

Clothe then with energy divine

Their words, and let those words be thine:
To them thy sacred truth reveal,
Suppress their fear, inflame their zeal.
Teach them to sow the precious seed,
Teach them thy chosen flock to feed:
Teach them immortal souls to gain-
Souls that will well reward their pain.
Let thronging multitudes around,
Hear from their lips the joyful sound,
In humble strains thy grace implore,
And feel thy new creating power
Let sinners break their massy chains,
Distressed souls forget their pains?
Let light thro' distant realms be spread,
And Zion rear her drooping head.

306. A Prayer for Ministers.
WITH heavenly power, O Lord, defend
Him whom we now to thee commend?
His person bless, his soul secure,
And make him to the end endure.
Gird him with all-sufficient grace;
Direct his feet in paths of peace:
Thy truth and faithfulness fulfil,
And help him to obey thy will.
S

Before him thy protection send;
O love him, save him to the end!
Nor let him, as thy pilgrim, rove
Without the convoy of thy love.
Enlarge, enflame, and fill his heart,
In him thy mighty power exert;
That thousands yet unborn may praise
The wonders of redeeming grace.

307. The Preacher.

WHO can describe the pain
Which faithful preachers feel,
Constrain'd to speak in vain,
To hearts as hard as steel!
Or who can tell the pleasures felt,
When stubborn hearts begin to melt?
The Saviour's dying love,
The soul's amazing worth,
Their utmost efforts move,
And draw their bowels forth:

They pray and strive, their rest departs,
Till Christ be form'd in sinners' hearts.

If some small hope appear,
They still are not content;
But, with a jealous fear,

They watch for the event;

Too oft they find their hopes deceiv'd,
Then how their inmost souls are griev'd?
But when their pains succeed,
And from the tender blade

The rip'ning ears proceed,
Their toils are overpaid;

No harvest joy can equal theirs,
To find the fruits of all their cares,

On what has now been sown,
Thy blessing, Lord, bestow;
The pow'r is thine alone,

To make it spring and grow:

Do thou the gracious harvest raise,
And thou alone shalt have the praise.

WHY will ye lavish out your years,
Amidst a thousand trifling cares?
While in this various range of thought,
The one thing needful is forgot.

Why will ye chase the fleeting wind,
And famish an immortal mind?
While angels, with regret, look down
To see you spurn an heavenly crown.

Th' eternal God calls from above,
And Jesus pleads his dying love;
Awaken'd conscience gives you pain;
And shall they join their pleas in vain ?

Almighty God, thy power impart
To fix conviction on the heart:
Thy power unveils the blindest eyes,
And makes the proudest scorner wise.

YE wretched, hungry, starving poor,
Behold a royal feast!

Where mercy spreads her bounteous store
For ev'ry humble guest.

See, Jesus stands with open arms;

He calls, he bids you come;
Guilt holds you back, and fear alarms;
But see, there yet is room;
Room in the Saviour's bleeding heart;
There love and pity meet;
Nor will he bid the soul depart,
That trembles at his feet.

In him the Father reconcil'd
Invites your souls to come;
The rebel shall be call'd'a child,
And kindly welcom'd home.

O come, and with his children taste
The blessings of his love;
While hope attends the sweet repast
Of nobler joys above.

There, with united heart and voice,
Before th' eternal throne,

Ten thousand thousand souls rejoice,
In ecstasies unknown.

And yet ten thousand thousand more
Are welcome still to come:

Ye longing souls, the grace adore,
Approach there yet is room.

YE dying sons of men,
Immerg'd in sin and woe,
The gospel's voice attend,"
While Jesus sends to you:
Ye perishing and guilty come,
In Jesus' arms there yet is room.
No longer now delay,

Nor vain excuses frame:
He bids you come to day,

Tho' poor, and blind, and lame: All things are ready, sinner, come, For every trembling soul there's room.

Believe the heavenly word His messengers proclaim; He is a gracious Lord, And faithful is his name. Backsliding souls, return and come, Cast off despair, there yet is room.

Compell'd by bleeding love, Ye wand'ring sheep draw near, Christ calls you from above, His charming accents hear. Let whosoever will, now come: In mercy's breast there still is room.

AND will the Lord thus condescend

To visit sinful worms?