Saints below, with heart and voice, Borne upon their latest breath, Songs of praise their powers employ. THY MERCIES ARE GREAT. J. E. CARPENTER.] THY mercies are great, [Music by N. J. SPOELE. For Thy love is unbounded, Stand abash'd and confounded; The poor and the meek, In Thy goodness excelling, And may enter Thy dwelling! Thy mercies are great, They are never denied us; To Thy wisdom confide us; In Thy goodness we centre, We Thy kingdom may enter. THOU ART WITH ME. J. E. CARPENTER.] PSALM XXIII. 4. [Music by J. R. THOMAS. THOU art with me, ever with me, In sickness, when the shadow Of the grave was on my brow, THOU, WHOSE ALMIGHTY WORD. JOHN MARRIOTT.] [Tunc-" St. Austin." THOU, whose almighty word Thou, who didst come to bring, Health to the sick in mind, Spirit of truth and love, Speed forth Thy flight; N Blessed and Holy Three, Grace, Love, and Might! Through the world, far and wide, 'LET NOT THE SUN GO DOWN ON YOUR WRATH." J. E. CARPENTER.] [Music by J. R. THOMAS. WHEN in thy bosom the wrath has been kindled, Part, and though each take a different path, What though your prospects a moment seem blighted, So will you triumph-but all in good season;- CHRIST'S FOLLOWERS. BISHOP R. HEBER.] [Tune" Old 81st." THE Son of God goes forth to war, His blood-red banner streams afar : Who best can drink His cup of woe, Who patient bears His cross below, The martyr first, whose eagle eye Like Him, with pardon on His tongue, He prayed for them that did the wrong : A glorious band, the chosen few, Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, They met the tyrant's brandish'd steel, They bow'd their necks the death to feel: A noble army, men and boys, Around the Saviour's throne rejoice, They climb'd the steep ascent of heaven, AFFLICTION. BISHOP WILBERFORCE.] WITHIN this leaf, to every eye [Tune-" Victory." So little worth, doth hidden lie Wouldst thou its secret strength unbind? Sweet as Arabia's spicy wind. N 2 In this stone, so poor and bare DR. COTTON.] A SUNDAY HYMN. THIS is the day the Lord of life [Tune-"Bristol." My thoughts pursue the lofty theme, Let no vain cares divert my mind Nor all the honours of the earth Think of the splendours of that place, With worlds beneath the sky. Heaven is the birthplace of the saints, Oh may these lovely titles prove When the sick couch my lot shall be And death shall call me hence. |