BLESS'D are the humble Souls that fee
Their Emptinefs and Poverty:
Treafures of Grace to them are giv'n,
And Crowns of Joy laid up in Heav'n.
2 Bleis'd are the Men of broken Heart,
Who mourn for Sin with inward Smart:
The Blood of Chrift divinely flows,
A healing Balm for all their Woes.
Blefs'd are the Men who thirst for Grace, Hunger and long for Righteousness : They fhall be well fupply'd, and fed With living Streams, and living Bread. 4 Blefs'd are the Men of peaceful Life, Who quench the Coals of growing Strife; They fhall be call'd the Heirs of Blifs, The Sons of God, the God of Peace.
Blefs'd are the Men whofe Bowels move,
And melt with Sympathy and Love,
From Chrift, their Lord, hall they obtain
Like Sympathy and Love again.
6 Bless'd are the pure, whofe Hearts are clean From the defiling Pow'rs of Sin,
With endless Pleasure fhall they fee
A God of spotlefs Purity.
7 Blefs'd are the Men who now partake
Of Shame and Pain for Jefu's Sake;
Their Souls, exulting in the Lord,
Shall fhare at laft the great Reward.
WOW let a true Ambition rife,
and Ardor fire our Breast,
To reign in Worlds above the Skies
in heav'nly Glories drest.
2 Behold Jehovah's royal Hand
a radiant Crown display,
Whose Gems with vivid Lustre shine,
while Stars and Suns decay.
3 Away each groveling anxious Care,
beneath a Chriftian's Thought!
We spring to seize immortal Joys,
which our Redeemer bought.
4 Ye Hearts with youthful Vigour warm,
the glorious Prize pursue;
Nor fhall ye want the Goods of Earth,
while Heav'n is kept in View.
HYMN CXVIII.
AWAKE, my Soul, stretch ev'ry Nerve, and press with Vigour on:
A heav'nly Race demands thy Zeal, and an immortal Crown.
2 'Tis God's all-animating Voice that calls thee from on high; A a 2
'Tis his own Hand prefents the Prize
to thine alpiring Eye.
3 A Cloud of Witneffes around
hold thee in full Survey;
Forget the Steps already trod,
and onward urge thy Way.
4 Blefs'd Saviour, introduc'd by thee have we our Race begun; And, crown'd with Victory, at thy Feet we lay our Laurels down.
HYMN CXIX,
HOW happy is the Pilgrim's Lot,
How free from ev'ry anxious Thought,
From worldly Hope and Fear!
Confin'd to neither Court nor Cell,
His Soul difdains on Earth to dwell,
He only fojourns here.
2 His Happiness in Part is mine,
Already fav'd from Self-Defign,
From ev'ry Creature-Love!
Blefs'd with the Scorp of finite Good,
My Soul is lighten'd of its Load,
And feeks the Things above,
3 The Things eternal I pursue,
And Happiness beyond the View
Of those who bafely pant
For Things by Nature felt and feen;
Their Honours, Wealth, and Pleasures mean,
I neither have nor want.
4 No Foot of Land do I poffefs,
No Cottage in this Wilderness,
A poor way-faring Man;
I lodge a while in Tents below,
Or gladly wander to and fro,
Till I my Canaan gain.
5 Nothing on Earth I call my own,
A Stranger, to the World unknown,
I all their Goods defpife;
I trample on their whole Delight,
And feek a Country out of Sight,
A Country in the Skies.
6 There is my House and Portion fair,
My Treasure and my Heart are there,
And my abiding Home:
For me my elder Brethren stay,
And Angels beckon me away,
And Jefus bids me come.
7 I come, thy Servant, Lord, replies,
1 come to meet thee in the Skies,
And claim my heav'nly Reft:
Now let the Pilgrim's Journey end;
Now, O my Saviour, Brother, Friend,
Receive me to thy Breast!
HYMN CXX,
E Servants of the Lord,
Each in his Office wait,
Obfervant of his heav'nly Word,
And watchful at his Gate.
2 Let all your Lamps be bright,
And trim the golden Flame;
Gird up your Loins, as in his Sight,
For awful is his Name.
Watch; 'tis your Lord's Command;
And while we fpeak he's near:
Mark the firft Signal of his Hand,
And ready all appear.
O happy Servant he,
In fuch a Pofture found!
He shall his Lord with Rapture fee,
And be with Honour crown'd.
Christ shall the Banquet fpread
With his own bounteous Hand,
And raise that favourite Servant's Head
Amidft th' angelic Band.
HYMN
I BEHOLD the Sons, the Heirs of God,
So dearly bought with Jefu's Blood!
Are they not born to heav'nly Joys,
And shall they stoop to earthly Toys?
2 Can Laughter feed th' immortal Mind?
Were Spirits of celestial Kind
Made for a Jeft, for Sport and Play, To wear our Time, and waste the Day? 3 Doth vain Difcourfe, or empty Mirth, Well fuit the Honours of their Birth?
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