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D. C. M.
Th’ Almighty Saviour comes ;
And feeble flesh assumes.
Upon the cross he pays ;
'Midst shouts of loftiest praise.
Before his Father's throne;
And pours salvation down.
Thy justice and thy grace,
Our firm dependence place.
FROGMORE. P. M. (4-7's.)
D. L. M. FATHER of mercies, bow thine ear, Attentive to our earnest prayer; We plead for those who plead for thee; Successful pleaders may they be! How great their work, how vast their charge ! Do thou their anxious souls enlarge ; Their best acquirements are our gain ; We share the blessings they attain. Clothe then with energy divine Their words, and let those words be thine ; To them thy sacred truth reveal; Suppress their fear, inflame their zeal. Teach them to sow the precious seed; Teach them thy chosen flock to feed; Teach them immortal souls to gain, Souls that will well reward their pain. Let thronging multitudes around Hear from their lips the joyful sound; In humble strains thy grace implore, And feel thy new-creating pow'r. Let sinners break their massy chains, And souls distress'd forget their pains : Let light through distant realms be spread, And Zion rear her drooping head!
MANCHESTER. FATHER of mercies, in thy word
What endless glory shines ;
For these celestial lines.
To cheer the fainting mind;
And rest the weary find.
Be thou for ever near;
And view our Saviour there.
Have join'd thy family above. 44. BISHOPTHORPE.
Thy sov'reign will denies,
My humble pray’r arise.
From ev'ry murmur free;
And make me live to thee.
In ev'ry pain I bear,
Or seek relief in pray'r.
My life and death attend,
Which daily I receive,
My soul, what canst thou give ?
What can I bring him forth!
My all is nothing worth.
So wretched and so poor,
Where death and darkness reign,
And every conflict o'er,
Enraptur'd myriads sing;
And soon their pleasures share;
TRICHINOPOLY. P. M. (7's & 6's, double.) FROM Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain.
What, though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle;
And only man is vile!
The gifts of God are strown;
Bows down to wood and stone.
Shall we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high, Shall we to man benighted,
The lamp of life deny ? Salvation ! O salvation !
The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation
Hath learnt Messiah's name.
Waft, waft, ye winds, His story;
And you, ye waters, roll, Till like a sea of glory,
It spread from pole to pole : Till o'er our ransom'd nature,
The Lamb for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.