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EVAN. C. M.
W. H. HAVERGAL.
1. How swift, a - las, the mo-ments Ay! How rush the years a
770 1 How swift, alas, the moments fly! 1 Beneath our feet, and o'er our head, How rush the years along!
Is equal warning given ; Scarce here, yet gone already by ;
Beneath us lie the countless dead, The burden of a song.
Above us is the heaven 2 See childhood, youth, and manhood pass, 2 Death rides on every passing breeze, And age with furrowed brow ;
And lurks in every flower ; Time was, time shall be, but, alas!
Each season has its own disease, Where, where in time is now ?
Its peril every hour. 3 Time is the measure but of change ; 3 Our eyes have seen the rosy light No present hour is found ;
Of youth's soft cheek decay, The past, the future, fill the range And fate descend in sudden night Of time's unceasing round.
On manhood's middle day. 4 Then, Christian, let thy joys and fears
4 Turn, mortal, turn; thy danger know : On time no longer lean ;
Where'er thy foot can tread, But henceforth all thy hopes and fears
The earth rings hollow from below, From earth's affections wean.
And warns thee by her dead.
R. HEBER 769
771 1 Our days, alas, our mortal days
1 How short and hasty is our life! Are short and wretched too!
How vast our soul's affairs ! "Evil and few,” the patriarch says, Yet foolish mortals vainly strive And well the patriarch knew.
To lavish out their years. 2 'Tis but, at best, a narrow bound, 2 Our days run thoughtlessly along,
That Heaven allows to men ; [round Without a moment's stay ; And pains and sins run through the Just like a story, or a song, Of threescore years and ten.
We pass our lives away. 3 Well, if ye must be sad and few, 3 Draw us, O God, with sovereign grace, Run on, my days, in haste ;
And lift our thoughts on high, Moments of sin, and months of woe, That we may end this mortal race, Ye cannot fly too fast.
And see salvation nigh.
774 1 O God, our help in ages past,
i Teach me the measure of my days, Our hope for years to come ;
Thou Maker of my frame; Our shelter from the stormy blast,
I would survey life's narrow space, And our eternal home.
And learn how frail I am. 2 Under the shadow of thy throne 2 A span is all that we can boast; Still may we dwell secure;
How short the fleeting time! Sufficient is thine arm alone,
Man is but vanity and dust, And our defence is sure,
In all his flower and prime. 3 A thousand ages, in thy sight,
3 What can I wish, or wait for, then, Are like an evening gone ;
From creatures, -earth and dust? Short as the watch that ends the night, They make our expectations vain, Before the rising sun.
And disappoint our trust.
I. WATTS 4 Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
775 Bears all its sons away ;
1 Through sorrow's night and danger's They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Amid the deepening gloom, Dies at the opening day.
We, followers of our suffering Lord, 773
Are marching to the tomb. 1 Thee we adore, eternal Name,
2 There, when the turmoil is no more, And humbly own to thee
And all our powers decay, How feeble is our mortal frame,
Our lifeless form in solitude What dying worms are we.
Shall sleep the years away. 2 Our wasting lives grow shorter still, 3 Our labors done, securely laid As days and months increase ;
In this our last retreat, And every beating pulse we tell
Unheeded, o'er our silent dust, Leaves but the number less.
The storms of earth shall beat. 3 The year rolls round, and steals away 4 These ashes, then, this little dust The breath that first it gave ;
Our Father's care shall keep, Whate'er we do, where'er we be,
Till the last angel rise and break We're traveling to the grave.
The long and dreary sleep.
H. K. WHITE.
1 How long shall death the tyrant reign, | 3 Let faith arise and climb the hills, And triumph o'er the just,
And from afar descry While the rich blood of martyrs slain How distant are his chariot wheels, Lies mingled with the dust?
And tell how fast they fly. 2 When shall the tedious night be gone? | 4 We hear the voice, “Ye dead, arise!" When will our Lord appear?
And, lo, the graves obey! Our fond desires would pray him down, And waking saints, with joyful eyes, Our love embrace him here.
Salute th' expected day. 777
DOVER. S. M.
WINDHAM. L. M.
1. Un-veil thy bo - som, faithful tomb ;Take this new treasure
to thy trust,
And give these sa - cred rel - ics room To slumber in the si
1 Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb; | 4 Yet these, new rising from the tomb,
Take this new treasure to thy trust, With lustre brighter far shall shine ; And give these sacred relics room
Shall have a never-ending bloom,
Safe from disease and from decline. 2 Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear,
780 Invades thy bounds; no mortal woes Can reach the peaceful sleeper here,
1 As fades the lovely, blooming flower, While angels watch the soft repose.
Frail, smiling solace of an hour ;
So soon our transient comforts fly, 3 So Jesus slept; God's only Son [bed ; And pleasure only blooms to die.
Passed thro' the grave and blest its
To soothe the anguish of the heart? shade.
Spirit of grace, be ever nigh :
Thy comforts are not made to die. 4 Break from his throne, illustrious morn! Attend, 0 earth, his sov'reign word !
3 Let gentle patience smile on pain,
Till dying hope revives again ;
Hope wipes the tear from sorrow's eye,
And faith stills ev'ry mourner's sigh. 779
781 1 The morning flowers display their sweets,
1 Asleep in Jesus! Would
break And gay their silken leaves unfold,
The calm which heav'n pronounces blest? All careless of the noontide heats,
And to a world of tears awake And fearless of the evening cold.
Those who in death's soft slumber rest? 2 So blooms the human face divine
2 Why should we wish that those we love When youth its pride of beauty shows, Should share the tears and woes we feel? Fairer than spring the colors shine,
Why should our hearts with sorrow move And sweeter than the blushing rose. Their tearless eyelids to unseal? 3 But worn by slowly rolling years 3 Weep for yourselves, whose weary feet Or broke by sickness in a day,
Must still earth's thorny pathway tread ; The fading glory disappears,
Weep not for those whose rest is sweet, The short-lived beauties die away. Among the safe, the blessed dead.
High was thy throne ere heaven was made, Or earth, thy hum - ble footstool, laid.
784 1 Through every age, eternal God, 1 Like shadows gliding o'er the plain, Thou art our rest, our safe abode :
Or clouds that roll successive on, High was thy throne ere heaven was made, Man's busy generations pass,
Or earth, thy humble footstool, laid. And while we gaze, their forms are gone. 2 Death, like an ever-flowing stream,
2 “He lived,—he died ;” behold the sum, Sweeps us away : our life's a dream
The abstract of th' historian's page! An empty tale—a morning flower,
Alike in God's all-seeing eye, Cut down and withered in an hour.
The infant's day, the patriarch's age.
3 O Father! in whose mighty hand 3 Teach us, O Lord, how frail is man,
The boundless years and ages lie, And kindly lengthen out our span, Till, cleansed by grace, we all may be
Teach us the boon of life to prize,
And use the moments as they fly; Prepared to die, yea, dwell with thee.
4 To crowd the narrow span of life 783
With wise designs and virtuous deeds ; 1 Life is the time to serve the Lord,
So shall we wake from death's dark night, The time t'insure the great reward ;
To share the glory that succeeds. And while the lamp holds out to burn,
J. TAYLOR. The vilest sinner may return.
1 How blest the righteous when he dies, 2 The living know that they must die ;
When sinks his weary soul to rest; But all the dead forgotten lie ;
How mildly beams the closing eyes, Their mem'ry and their sense are gone,
How gently heaves th’expiring breast, Alike unknowing and unknown. 3 Their hatred and their love is lost,
2 So fades a summer cloud away ; Their envy buried in the dust ;
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er ; They have no share in all that's done
So gently shuts the eye of day ; Beneath the circuit of the sun.
So dies a wave along the shore. 4 Then what my thoughts design to do, 3 But soon shall shine that marble brow, My hands, with all your might, pursue,
When slumb'ring saints arise and sing, Since no device nor work is found, "O grave, where is thy vict'ry now, Nor faith, nor hope, beneath the ground. And where, O death,is now thy sting ?"
A. L. BARBAULD.