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6 Then fhall the mourner, at thy feet,
Rejoice to feek thy face,

And grateful own how kind, how sweet,
Is thy forgiving grace.

Mrs. STEELE.

Hymn CLXXIV. Short Metre. [V]

Confeffion and Pardon.

Y forrows, like a flood

M Impatient of restraint,

Into thy bofom, O my God,
Pour out a long complaint.
2 How often have I ftood
A rebel to the fkies!

Yet, O the patience of my God,
Thy thunder filent lies.

3 Now by a powerful glance,

My Saviour, from thy face,
This rebel heart no more withstands,
But yields to fovereign grace,

4

I fee the Prince of Life

Difplay his wounded veins

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I fee the fountain open'd wide,
To wash away my stains.
5 My God is reconcil'd,
My tears his pity move;
He calls me his adopted child,
The object of his love.
6 Now let me not receive
In vain this heavenly grace;
But let it be a fruitful feed,
Producing holiness.

WATTS, abbreviated and altered

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Y foul, awake, ftretch every nerve,
And prefs with vigour on;

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A heavenly race demands thy zeal,
And an immortal crown.

2 A cloud of witneffes around,
Hold thee in full furvey;
Forget the steps already trod,
And onward urge thy way.

3 'Tis God's all animating voice,
Which calls thee from on high;
'Tis his own hand prefents the prize
To thine afpiring eye.

4 That prize, with peerless glories bright,
Which fhall new luftre boaft,
When victors' wreaths, and monarchs gen
Shall blend in common dust,

5 My foul, with facred ardour fir'd,
The glorious prize purfue;

And meet, with joy, the high command, To bid this earth adieu.

DODDRIDGE

Hymn CLXXVI. Short Metre. D

Prayer in Sickness.

M with humble hope, I prefs;

Y Sov'reign, to thy throne,

O bow thine ear, to hear the groan
Of indigent diftrefs.

2 Th' eternal Priest appears
Before thee with his blood;
Through him I offer these my tears,
And caft my care on God.

3 My life, bow'd down with pain,
Mourns its decaying bloom;
Lord, clothe thefe bones with flesh again,
And fpare me from the tomb.

4 Without one murm'ring word,
Thy chaft'aing I receive;

But with fubmiffion afk, O Lord,
A merciful reprieve.

5

Diftrefs'd and pain'd as now,
Thy aid I once implor'd;
Thy pity heard my earnest vow,
Thy power my health restor'd,
6 My fupplicating voice,
Unwearied, I will raise :

Say to thy fervant's foul, "Rejoice!"
And fill my mouth with praise.

SCOTT.

bpmn CLXXVII. Common Metre. [*]

M

Marriage.

YSTERIOUS rite! By Heaven ordain'd
This facred truth to prove,

The blifs which mortals here enjoy,

Muft flow from virtuous love.

2 Though made by God's almighty hand,
And in his image form'd,

Yet Adam knew no happinefs,
Till love his bofom warm'd,

3 Eden, with all its beauteous groves, And fruits of richest taste,

4

To one for focial blits defign'd
Was but a lonely, wafte.

But when his lovely bride appear'd
In native graces dreft,

The latent fpark burit into flame,

And love infpir'd his breast.

5 What wife provifion haft thou made,
Great Parent of mankind,
That all thine offspring may enjoy
The blifs for them defign'd!

6 Then will we join our hearts and hands In bonds of virtuous love;

And whilft we live in peace below,
Prepare for biifs above,

pmn CLXXVIII. Common Metre. [

N

Submiffion to Providence..

AKED as from the earth we came,
And rofe to life at first,

We to the earth return again,
And mingle with our duft.

2 The dear delights we here enjoy,
And call our own, in vain,

Are but fhort favours borrow'd now,
To be repaid again.

3 'Tis God who lifts our comforts high,
Or finks them to the grave;

He gives, and, bleffed be his name,
He takes but what he gave.

4 Peace, all our angry paflions, then!
Let each impatient figh

Be filent at his fov'reign will,
And every murmur die.

If fmiling mercy crown our lives,
Its praises shall be spread;

And we'll adore the juftice too
That strikes our comforts dead.

WATTS.

Hymn CLXXIX. Common Metre. [b]

Vain Prosperity, or Forgetfulness of God.

NW

O, I fhall envy them no more,
Who grow profanely great;

Though they increase their golden store,
And fhine in robes of state.

2 They taste of all the joys that grow
Upon this earthly clod;

In vain they fearch the creature through
Whilft they forget their God.
3 Shake off the thoughts of dying too,
And think your life your own;
But death comes haft'ning on to you,
To cut your glory down.

4 Yes, you must bow your ftately head,
Away your fpirit flies

;

And no kind angel near your bed,

To bear it to the skies.

5 Go now, and boaft of all your stores,
And tell how bright you shine;

Your heaps of glitt'ring duft are yours,
And my Redeemer's mine.

WATT

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