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7s, 6s. 81. Oh, how shall I receive Thee,
How meet Thee on Thy way,
My soul's delight and stay?
Now by Thine own pure light,
And welcome in Thy sight. 2 Thy Zion palms is strewing,
With branches fresh and fair ;
Her anthem shall prepare ;
Forth from my heart shall spring;
Of all my powers I bring.
Love brought Thee down to me;
Procured my liberty.
That led Thee to embrace,
Our lost and fallen race !
4 Ye who, with guilty terror,
Are trembling, fear no more ;
Shall you to hope restore.
Will with the children place,
The heirs of life and grace. P. Gerhardt. Tr., Verses 1, 2, 4, A. T. Russell ; Verse
3, J. C. Jacobi. Alt.
79,68. 81. My sins, my sins, my Saviour !
They take such hold on me,
Save only, Christ, to Thee.
In Thee abundant grace ;
The brightness of Thy face.
2 My sins, my sins, my Saviour,
How sad on Thee they fall !
I tenfold feel them all.
But still, their pain to me
They laid, my Lord, on Thee.
Their guilt I never knew
I near Thy passion drew ;
I heard Thy pleading prayer,
That told Thy sorrow there.
E'en in this time of woe,
To suffering man below;
Whose presence from above
J. S. B. Monsell.
The gate of heav'n to men below,
Thine aid supply, Thy strength bestow. 2 All thanks and praise to Thee ascend
For evermore, blest One in Three;
T. Aquinas. Tr. E. Caswall.
Uplifted on the healing tree. 2 To gaze on Thee in suffering
Shall heal the serpent's deadly sting;
This healing grace: we look and live. 3 There sons for glory Thou dost gain,
There martyrs for their triumph train,
By love's best evidence, Thy death. 4 And from the earth uplifted high,
A King, enthroned in majesty,
And drawest all men unto Thee. 5 O Crucified, we cleave to Thee,
And Thou shalt our salvation be ;
C. Coffin. Tr. W. Cooke.
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;
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;
What bliss, till now was Thine !
I joy to call Thee mine.
Was all for sinners' gain ;
But Thine the deadly pain.
'Tis I deserve Thy place ;
Vouchsafe to me Thy grace. 3 The joy can ne'er be spoken,
Above all joys beside,
I thus with safety hide.
Thy glory now to see,
I'd breathe my soul to Thee. 4 What language shall I borrow,
To thank Thee, dearest friend.
Thy pity without end?