199

WHY

Gate of Joy.

[By Dr. ISAAC WATTS.]

L. M

should we start, and fear to die?

What tim'rous worms we mortals are!

Death is the gate to endless joy,

And yet we dread to enter there.

2 The pains, the groans, the dying strife,
Fright our approaching souls away;
And we shrink back again to life,
Fond of our prison and our clay.
3 O would my Lord His servant meet,

My soul would stretch her wings in haste,
Fly fearless through death's iron gate,
Nor feel the terrors as she pass'd.

4 Jesus can make a dying bed

200

Feel soft as downy pillows are,

While on His breast I lean my head,
And breathe my life out sweetly there.
His Sympathy.

[By Dr. WATTS.]

ITH joy we meditate the grace
Of our High-Priest above;

His heart is made of tenderness,

His bowels melt with love.

C. M.

2 Touch'd with a sympathy within,
He knows our feeble frame;
He knows what sore temptations mean,
For He hath felt the same.

3 He in the days of feeble flesh,

Pour'd out strong cries and tears,

And in His measure feels afresh
What every member bears.

4 He'll never quench the smoking flax, But raise it to a flame;

The bruiséd reed He never breaks,
Nor scorns the meanest name.

5 Then let our humble faith address
His mercy and His power;
We shall obtain deliv'ring grace
In every trying hour.

201

LYRICS.

A mighty Fortress is our God.

[Written by LUTHER, on his way to the Diet of Worms. In hours of de spondency he was accustomed to say to Melancthon, "Come, Philip, let us sing the 46th Psalm." This version is by F. H. Hedge.]

A

MIGHTY fortress is our God,

A bulwark never failing;

Our Helper He amid the flood
Of mortal ills prevailing.

For still our ancient foe
Doth seek to work us woe;
His craft and power are great,
And, armed with cruel hate,
On earth is not his equal.

Did we in our own strength confide,
Our striving would be losing;
Were not the right Man on our side,
The Man of God's own choosing.
Dost ask who that may be?

Christ Jesus, it is He,
Lord Sabaoth His name,
From age to age the same,

And He must win the battle.

And though this world, with devils fill'd,
Should threaten to undo us,

We will not fear, for God hath willed
His truth to triumph through us.

202

The Prince of Darkness grim,
We tremble not for him;
His rage we can endure,
For, lo! his doom is sure,
One little word shall fell him.
That word above all earthly powers
No thanks to them - abideth;
The spirit and the gifts are ours
Through Him who with us sideth.
Let goods and kindred go,
This mortal life also;
The body they may kill,

God's truth abideth still,

His kingdom is forever.

The Stranger.

Written in 1826, by JAMES MONTGOMERY, of England, son of a Moravian minister; born 1771; died 1854.]

A

POOR wayfaring man of grief

Hath often crossed me on my way,

Who sued so humbly for relief,

That I could never answer, Nay.
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came,
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love, I knew not.why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered, not a word he spake,
Just perishing for want of bread;
I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,
And ate,
but gave me part again;
Mine was an angel's portion then;