Sprung from the Man, whofe guilty Fall
Corrupts the Race, and taints us all.

Soon as we draw our Infant-Breath,
The Seeds of Sin grow up for Death;
Thy Law demands a perfect Heart,
But we're defil'd in every Part.

Behold! we fall before thy Face,
Our only Refuge is thy Grace;
No outward Forms can make us clean,
The Leprofy lies deep within.

Jefus, our God, thy Blood alone
Hath Pow'r fufficient to atone ;
Lord, let us hear thy pard'ning Voice,
And make our down-caft Heart rejoice.

L

ORD, we would spread our fore Distress
And Guilt before thine Eyes;

Against thy Laws, against thy Grace,

How high our Crimes arife!

Shouldft thou condemn our Souls to Hell,

And crush our Flesh to Duft,

Heav'n would approve thy Vengeance well,

And Earth muft own it juft.

Cleanfe us, O Lord, and chear each Soul
With thy forgiving Love ;-

O make our broken Spirits whole,
And bid our Pains remove.

Let

Let not thy Spirit quite depart,
Nor drive us from thy Face,
Create a-new our vicious Hearts,
And fill them with thy Grace.

HYMN CXXVII.

At the Death of a Believer.

WHY do we mourn departing Friends,

Or fhake at Death's Alarms?

'Tis but the Voice that Jefus fends. To call them to his Arms.

Are we not tending upward too,
As faft as Time can move?

Why should we with the Hours more flow
That keep us from our Love?

Why fhould we tremble to convey
Their Bodies to the Tomb?
There the dear Flefh of Jefus lay,
And left a fweet Perfume.

The Graves of all his Saints he blefs'd,
And foft'ned every Bed;

Where should the dying Members reft
But with their dying Head?

Thence he arose, ascending high,
And fhew'd our Feet the Way,
Up to the Lord our Flefh fhall fly
At the great rifing Day.

HYMN CXXVIII.

Funeral.

EACH me the Measure of my Days,
Thou Maker of my Frame;

I would furvey Life's narrow Space,
And learn how frail I am.

A Span is all that we can boast,
An Inch or two of Time;
Man is but Vanity and Duft
In all his Flower and Prime.

See the vain Race of Mortals move,
Like Shadows o'er the lain,
They rage, and strive, defire and love,
But all their Noife is vain..

Some walk in Honour's gaudy Show,
Some dig for golden Ore ;.

They toil for Heirs they know not who,
And ftrait are feen no more.

We are but Strangers here below,
As all our Fathers were;

May we be well prepar'd to go,
When we the Summons hear!

M

HYMN CXXIX.

The fame.

Y Soul, come meditate the Day,
And think how near it stands,

When

When thou must quit this House of Clay,
And fly to unknown Lands.

Oh could we die with thofe that die,
And place us in their Stead!
Then would our Spirits learn to fly,
And converfe with the Dead.

Then fhould we fee the Saints above
In their own glorious Forms,
And wonder why our Souls fhould love
To dwell with mortal Worms.

HYMN

CXXX.

O come let us fing unto the Lord..

D

ISCIPLES of Chrift,

Ye Friends of the Lamb,

Attend and affist

In finging his Fame:
Eternal Thanksgiving
The Faithful fhould pay,
The living, the living,
As we do this Day.

A Body of Clay

He humbly put on, And then took away

The Sin we had done:

And in it endured

The Wrath to us due,
The Curfe we incurred,
Our Stripes and our Woe.

Not

Nor only he died,
But also arose,

Laid Weakness afide,
And over his Foes,
(Sin, Death, and the Devil)
He triumphed o'er,
And every Evil,

Dominion and Pow'r.

O merciful Lamb,

Who fits on the Throne,
We bow at thy Name,
We count thee alone
Deferving our Bleffing,
And Bleffing we'll give,
Without ever ceafing
So long as we live.

S

For the fifth of November.

HOUT to the Lord, and let our Joys
Thro' the whole Nation run;

Ye British Skies, refound the Noise
Beyond the rifing Sun.

Thee, mighty God, our Souls admire,

Thee our glad Voices fing,

And join with the celeftial Choir

To praise th' eternal King.

Thy Pow'r the whole Creation rules,

And on the ftarry Skies

Sits fmiling at the weak Defigns
Thine envious Foes devife.

Thy