250

7s, 6s. 81. Oh, how shall I receive Thee,

How meet Thee on Thy way,
Blest hope of every nation,

My soul's delight and stay?
O Jesus, Jesus, give me

Now by Thine own pure light,
To know whate'er is pleasing

And welcome in Thy sight. 2 Thy Zion palms is strewing,

With branches fresh and fair ;
My soul, in praise awaking,

Her anthem shall prepare ;
Perpetual thanks and praises

Forth from my heart shall spring;
And to Thy name the service

Of all my powers I bring.
3 Love caused Thy incarnation,

Love brought Thee down to me;
Thy thirst for my salvation

Procured my liberty.
Oh, love beyond all telling,

That led Thee to embrace,
In love all love excelling,

Our lost and fallen race !

4 Ye who, with guilty terror,

Are trembling, fear no more ;
With love and grace the Saviour

Shall you to hope restore.
He comes, who contrite sinners

Will with the children place,
The children of His Father,

251

79,68. 81. My sins, my sins, my Saviour !

They take such hold on me,
I am not able to look up,

Save only, Christ, to Thee.
In Thee is all forgiveness,

In Thee abundant grace ;
My shadow and my sunshine

The brightness of Thy face.

2 My sins, my sins, my Saviour,

How sad on Thee they fall !
Seen through Thy gentle patience,

I tenfold feel them all.
I know they are forgiven ;

But still, their pain to me
Is all the grief and anguish

They laid, my Lord, on Thee.
3 My sins, my sins, my Saviour !

Their guilt I never knew
Till with Thee in the desert

I near Thy passion drew ;
Till with Thee in the garden

I heard Thy pleading prayer,
And saw the sweat-drops bloody

That told Thy sorrow there.
4 Therefore my songs, my Saviour,

E'en in this time of woe,
Shall tell of all Thy goodness

To suffering man below;
Thy goodness and Thy favor,

Whose presence from above
Makes glad those hearts, my Saviour,
That live in Thee and love.

J. S. B. Monsell.

252

L. M.
O SAVING victim, opening wide

The gate of heav'n to men below,
Our foes press on from every side ;

Thine aid supply, Thy strength bestow. 2 All thanks and praise to Thee ascend

For evermore, blest One in Three;
Oh, grant us life that shall not end,
In our true native land with Thee.

T. Aquinas. Tr. E. Caswall.

253

L. M.
O Thou, who in the pains of death
Art yielding up Thy parting breath,
Teach us to fix our eyes on Thee

Uplifted on the healing tree. 2 To gaze on Thee in suffering

Shall heal the serpent's deadly sting;
For Thou art God, nailed there to give

This healing grace: we look and live. 3 There sons for glory Thou dost gain,

There martyrs for their triumph train,
There stablish Thy most Holy Faith

By love's best evidence, Thy death. 4 And from the earth uplifted high,

A King, enthroned in majesty,
Thine arms Thou spreadest on the tree,

And drawest all men unto Thee. 5 O Crucified, we cleave to Thee,

And Thou shalt our salvation be ;
Thy cross, our only hope and pride,
Shall ever in our hearts abide.

C. Coffin. Tr. W. Cooke.

254

L. M. WHEN I survey the wondrous cross

On which the Prince of glory died, My richest gain I count but loss

And pour contempt on all my pride. 2 Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,

Save in the cross of Christ, my God : All the vain things that charm me most,

I sacrifice them to His blood.

3 See, from His head, His hands, His feet,

Sorrow and love flow mingled down ! Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,

Or thorns compose so rich a crown ? 4 Were the whole realm of nature mine,

That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.

1. Watts.

255

L. M. 'Tis midnight, and on Olive's brow

The star is dimmed that lately shone ; 'Tis midnight, in the garden, now,

The suffering Saviour prays alone. 2 'Tis midnight, and from all removed,

Emmanuel wrestles lone with fears ; E'en the disciple that He loved

Heeds not his Master's grief and tears.

3 'Tis midnight, and for others' guilt

The Man of sorrow weeps in blood ; Yet He that hath in anguish knelt

Is not forsaken by his God.

4 'Tis midnight, and from heavenly plains

Is borne the song that angels know; Unheard by mortals are the strains That sweetly soothe the Saviour's woe.

W. B. Tappan. 256

7s, 6s. 81. O SACRED Head, now wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down, Now scornfully surrounded

· With thorns, Thine only crown;
O sacred Head, what glory,

What bliss, till now was Thine !
Yet, tho' despised and gory,

I joy to call Thee mine.
2 What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered

Was all for sinners' gain ;
Mine, mine was the transgression,

But Thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here, I fall, my Saviour !

'Tis I deserve Thy place ;
Look on me with Thy favor,

Vouchsafe to me Thy grace. 3 The joy can ne'er be spoken,

Above all joys beside,
When in Thy body broken

I thus with safety hide.
My Lord of life, desiring

Thy glory now to see,
Beside the cross expiring,

I'd breathe my soul to Thee. 4 What language shall I borrow,

To thank Thee, dearest friend.
For this Thy dying sorrow,

Thy pity without end?