2 Courage, my soul, thy bitter cross, In every trial here,
Shall bear thee to thy heaven above, But shall not enter there The sighing souls that humbly seek In sorrowing paths below, Shall in eternity rejoice, Where endless comforts flow.
3 Soon will the toilsome strife be o'er, Of sublunary care, And life's dull vanities no more, This anxious breast ensnare. Courage, my soul, on God rely; Deliv'rance soon will come: A thousand ways has Providence To bring believers home.
4 E'er first I drew this vital breath, From nature's prison free, Crosses in number, measure, weight, Were written, Lord, for me. But thou, my Shepherd, Friend, and Guide, Hast led me kindly on; Taught me to rest my fainting head On Christ, the corner-stone.
5 So comforted, and so sustain'd, With dark events I strove,
And found, when rightly understood, All messengers of love: With silence, and submissive awe, Ador'd a chast'ning God, Rever'd the terrors of his law, And humbly kiss'd the rod,
And they sing the song of Moses the Servant of God, and the song of the Lamb. Rev. xv. 3.
Wake every heart and every tongue, To praise the Saviour's name.
2 Sing of his dying love; Sing of his rising power; Sing how he intercedes above For us whose sins he bore. 3 Sing till we feel our hearts Ascending with our tongues; Sing, till the love of sin departs, And grace inspire our songs. Sing, till we hear Christ say, "Your sins are all forgiven; Sing on, rejoicing every day, Till we all sing in heaven.
Hymn 332. P. M.
Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, Lord. Psalm cxxx. 1.
STILL out of the deepest abyss
And pine to recover my peace, To see my Redeemer and die. I cannot, I cannot forbear, These passionate longings for home; O! when shall my spirit be there? O! when will the messenger come?
2 Thy nature I long to put on; Thine image on earth to regain; And then, in the grave to lay down This burden of body and pain. O Jesus, in pity draw near, And lull me to sleep on thy breast; Appear, to my rescue appear, And gather me into thy rest.
3 To take a poor fugitive in, The arms of thy mercy display, And give me to rest from all sin, And bear me triumphant away; Away from a world of distress; Away to the mansions above; The heaven of seeing thy face- The heaven of feeling thy love.
Hymn 333. L. M.
OUR LORD'S RESURRECTION
And the third day rise again. Luke xxiv. 7. A LL ye that seek the Lord who died, Your God for sinners crucified; Prevent the earliest dawn, and come To worship at his sacred tomb.
2 Bring the sweet spices of your sighs, Your contrite hearts, and streaming eyes; Your sad complaints and humble fears; Come, and embalm him with your tears. While thus you love your souls t' employ, Your sorrows, shall be turn'd to joy;
Now, now let all your grief be o'er; Believe and ye shall weep no more. 4 The third auspicious morn is come, And calls your Saviour from the tomb; The bands of death are torn away: The yawning tomb gives back its prey:
5 The Lord of life is ris'n indeed; To death deliver'd in your stead: His rise proclaims your sins forgiven, And shows the living way to heaven. Hymn 334. L. M.
Thou hast ascended on high, thou hast led cap tivity captive. Psalm Ixviii. 18.
UR Lord is risen from the dead; Our Jesus is gone up on high! The powers of hell are captive led, Dragg'd to the portals of the sky. 2 There his triumphal chariot waits, And angels chaunt the solemn lay; Lift up your heads, ye heavenly gates: Ye everlasting doors, give way.
3 Loose all your bars of massy light, And wide unfold the ethereal scene; He claims his mansions as his right; Receive the KING OF GLORY in.
4 Who is the King of glory, who? The Lord that all our foes o'ercame; The world, sin, death, and hell o'erthrew And JESUS is the conqu'ror's name..
5 Lo his triumphal chariot waits,
And angels chaunt the solemn lay, Lift up your heads, ye heavenly gates; Ye everlasting doors, give way. 6 Who is the King of glory, who? The Lord, of glorious power possest: The King of saints and angels too; God over all, for ever blest.
Hymn 335. C. М.
And have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. 1 Cor. xiii. 3.
HOULD bounteous nature kindly pour, Her richest gifts on me; Still, O my God, I should be poor, If void of love to thee.
3 Not shining wit, nor manly sense, Could make me truly good; Nor zeal itself could recompense The want of love to God.
3 Did I possess the gift of tongues, And were devoid of grace; My loudest words, my softest songs, Would be but sounding brass.
4 Tho' thou shouldst give me heavenly skill, Each mystery to explain; Had I no heart to do thy will, My knowledge would be vain. Had I so strong a faith, my God,
As mountains to remove;
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