3 Oh! could we die with those that die,
And place us in their stead;
Then would our spirits learn to fly,
And converse with the dead.

4 Then should we see the saints above,
In their own glorious forms,
And wonder, why our souls should love
To dwell with mortal worms.

5 We should almost forsake our clay
Before the summons come,
And pray, and wish our souls away,
To their eternal home.

631.

8s and 7s.

The Spirit of a dying Christian.

1 PARTING soul! the flood awaits thee,
And the billows round thee roar;
Yet rejoice, the holy city

Stands on yon celestial shore.

2 There are crowns and thrones of glory,
There the living waters glide;
There the just in shining raiment,
Standing by Immanuel's side.

3 Linger not, the stream is narrow,
Though its cold dark waters rise;
He, who passed the flood before thee,
Guides thy path to yonder skies.

1 WHY should we start, and fear to die? What tim'rous worms we mortals are! Death is the gate of endless joy,

And yet we dread to enter there.

2 The pains, the groans, the dying strife,
Fright our approaching souls away;
Still we shrink back again to life,
Fond of our prison and our clay.

3 Oh! if my Lord would come and meet,
My soul would stretch her wings in haste.
Fly fearless through death's iron gate-
Nor feel the terrors as she passed.

4 Jesus can make a dying bed

Feel soft as downy pillows are,
While on his breast I lean my head,
And breathe my life out sweetly there.

633.

C. M.

Comfort in the Death of Friends.

1 WHY do we mourn departing friends,
Or shake at death's alarms?

"T is but the voice that Jesus sends,
To call them to his arms.

2 Are we not tending upward too,
As fast as time can move?

Nor should we wish the hours more slow
To keep us from our love.

3 Why should we tremble to convey
Their bodies to the tomb?
There the dear flesh of Jesus lay,
And left a long perfume.

4 The graves of all the saints he blessed,
And softened every bed:
Where should the dying members rest,
But with their dying Head?

5 Thence he arose, ascended high,
And showed our feet the way;
Up to the Lord his saints shall fly,
At the great rising day.

6 Then let the last loud trumpet sound,
And bid our kindred rise;
Awake, ye nations under ground!
Ye saints! ascend the skies.

634.

C. M.

Silent Submission.

1 PEACE! 't is the Lord Jehovah's hand,
That blasts our joys in death;
Changes the visage once so dear,
And gathers back our breath.

2 'T is he, the Potentate supreme
Of all the worlds above,

Whose steady counsels wisely rule,
Nor from their purpose move.

3 T is he, whose justice might demand
Our souls a sacrifice;

Yet scatters, with unwearied hand,
A thousand rich supplies.

4 Our covenant-God and Father he,
In Christ, our bleeding Lord;
Whose grace can heal the bursting heart,
With one reviving word.

5 Silent we own Jehovah's name,-
We kiss thy chastening hand;
And yield our comforts and our life,
To thy supreme command.

635.

C. M.

Triumph over Death.

1 GREAT God! I own the sentence just, And nature must decay;

I yield my body to the dust,

To dwell with fellow-clay.

2 Yet faith may triumph o'er the grave,
And trample on the tombs;
My Jesus, my Redeemer, lives,
My God, my Saviour, comes.

3 The mighty Conqueror shall appear,
High on a royal seat;

And death, the last of all his foes,
Lie vanquished at his feet.

4 Then shall I see thy lovely face,
With strong, immortal eyes;

And feast upon thine unknown grace,
With pleasure and surprise.

636.

12s and 11s.

A Funeral Hymn.

1 THOU art gone to the grave-but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;

The Saviour has passed through its portals before

thee,

And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom.

2 Thou art gone to the grave-we no longer behold

thee,

Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side;

But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,

And sinners may hope, since the Sinless hath died.

3 Thou art gone to the grave-and, its mansion forsaking,

Perchance thy weak spirit in doubt lingered long;

But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking,

And the sound thou didst hear was the se

raphim's song.

4 Thou art gone to the grave-but we will not deplore thee,

Since God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide;

He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore thee,

And death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.

637.

C. M.

Victory over Death.

1 OH! for an overcoming faith,
To cheer my dying hours;

To triumph o'er the monster, death,
And all his frightful powers!

2 Joyful, with all the strength I have,
My quivering lips should sing,-
"Where is thy boasted vict'ry, grave?
O death! where is thy sting?"

3 If sin be pardoned, I'm secure;
Death has no sting beside:

The law gives sin its damning power,
But Christ, my ransom, died.

4 Now to the God of victory

Immortal thanks be paid;

Who makes us conquerors, while we die,
Through Christ, our living head.

638.

C. M.

The Death of Children.

1 YE mourning saints! whose streaming tears
Flow o'er your children dead,—
Say not in transports of despair,
That all your hopes are fled.

2 While, cleaving to that darling dust,
In fond distress ye lie,

Rise, and with joy, and reverence, view
A heavenly parent nigh.

3 Though your young branches torn away,-
Like withered trunks ye stand;
With fairer verdure shall ye bloom,
Touched by th' Almighty's hand.

4 "I'll give the mourner," saith the Lord,
"In my own house a place;
No names of daughters and of sons
Could yield so high a grace.

5 "Transient and vain is every hope
A rising race can give;
In endless honor and delight,

My children all shall live."

6 We welcome, Lord! those rising tears, Through which thy face we see;

[hearts,

And bless those wounds which, through our
Prepare a way for thee.

639.

L. M.

The Christian's parting Hour.

1 HOW sweet the hour of closing day,

When all is peaceful and serene;
And the broad sun's retiring ray
Sheds a mild lustre o'er the scene!

2 Such is the Christian's parting hour,-
So peacefully he sinks to rest;
When faith, endued from heaven with power,
Strengthens and cheers his languid breast.

3 Mark but that radiance of his eye,-
That smile, upon his wasted cheek!
They tell us of his glory nigh,

In language which no tongue can speak.