'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends To call them to his arms.
2 Why should we tremble to convey
Their bodies to the tomb?
There the dear flesh of Jesus lay,
And left a long perfume.
3 The graves of all his saints he bless'd, And soften'd every bed:
Where should the dying members rest,
But with their dying Head?
4 Thence he arose, ascending high,
And shew'd our feet the way:
Up to the Lord our flesh shall fly
At the great rising-day.
5 Then let the last loud trumpet sound,
And bid our kindred rise:
Awake, ye nations under ground;
Ye saints, ascend the skies.
HYMN XCV. (s. M.)
PREPARE me, gracious God,
To stand before thy face;
Thy Spirit must the work perform,
For it is all of grace.
In Christ's obedience clothe,
And wash me in his blood:
So shall I lift my head with joy
Among the sons of God.
3 Do thou my sins subdue ;
Thy sov'reign love make known;
The spirit of my mind renew,
And save me in thy Son.
Let me thy goodness prove,
Till my full soul can hold no more
Of everlasting love.
HYMN XCVI. (c.M.)
1 THERE is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign;
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.
2 There everlasting spring abides,
And never-with'ring flowers:
Death, like a narrow sea, divides
This heav'nly land from ours.
3 Sweet fields, beyond the swelling flood, Stand dress'd in living green:
So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
While Jordan roll'd between.
4 But tim'rous mortals start and shriuk
To cross this narrow sea;
And linger shiv'ring on the brink,
And fear to launch away.
5 Oh! could we make our doubts remove, These gloomy doubts that rise,
And see the Canaan that we love
With unbeclouded eyes!
6 Could we but climb where Moses stood,
And view the landscape o'er; [flood,
Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold
Should fright us from the shore.
HYMN XCVII. (C. M.)
1 WHEN I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies,
I bid farewell to every fear,
And wipe my weeping eyes.
2 Should earth against my soul engage,
And hellish darts be hurl'd,
Then I can smile at Satan's rage,
And face a frowning world.
3 Let cares like a wild deluge come,
And storms of sorrow fall;
May I but safely reach my home,
My God, my heav'n, my all;
4 There shall I bathe my weary soul
In seas of heav'nly rest,
And not a wave of trouble roll
Across my peaceful breast.
HYMN XCVIII. (C. M.)
i How long shall Death the tyrant reign,
And triumph o'er the just;
While the rich blood of martyrs slain
Lies mingled with the dust?
2 I see the Lord of glory come,
And flaming guards around;
The skies divide to make him room,
The trumpet shakes the ground.
3 I hear the voice, "Ye dead, arise!"
And, lo! the graves obey;
And waking saints, with joyful eyes,
Salute the expected day.
They leave the dust, and on the wing
Rise to the midway air;
In shining garments meet their King,
And low adore him there.
5 Oh, may our humble spirits stand
Among them cloth'd in white!
The meanest place at his right hand
Is infinite delight.
HYMN XCIX. (P. M. Sicilian.)
1 Lo! he comes with clouds descending,
Once for favour'd sinners slain !
Thousand thousand saints attending
Swell the triumph of his train :
Hallelujah!
Jesus now shall ever reign!
2 Every eye shall now behold him
Rob'd in dreadful majesty:
Those who set at nought and sold him,
Pierc'd and nail'd him to the tree,
Deeply wailing,
Shall the great Messiah see!
3 Now redemption, long expected,
See in solemn pomp appear!
All his saints, by man rejected,
Now shall meet him in the air!
Hallelujah!
See the day of God appear!
4 Yea! Amen! let all adore thee,
High on thine exalted throne!
Saviour! take the power and glory;
Claim the kingdoms for thine own!
O come quickly!
Hallelujah! Come, Lord, come!
1 METHINKS the last great day is come,
Methinks I hear the trumpet sound,
That shakes the earth, rends every tomb,
And wakes the pris'ners under ground.
2 The mighty deep gives up her trust,
Aw'd by the Judge's high command;
Both small and great now quit their dust,
And round the dread tribunal stand.
3 Behold the awful books display'd,
Big with th' important fates of men;
Each deed and word now public made,
As writ by God's unerring pen.
4 To every soul the books assign
The joyous or the dread reward:
Sinners in vain lament and pine;
No pleas the Judge will here regard.
5 Lord, when these awful leaves unfold,
May life's fair book my soul approve!
There may I read my name enroll'd,
And triumph in redeeming love!
ON PASSAGES OF SCRIPTURE.
HYMN CI. Gen. XIV. 18—20. (P. M. Hotham.).
1 KING of Salem, bless my soul;
Make a wounded sinner whole!
King of righteousness and peace,
Let thy visits never cease!
Come, refresh this soul of mine
With thy sacred bread and wine!
All thy love to me unfold,
Half of which cannot be told.
2 Hail, Melchisedec divine!
Great High-Priest, I call thee mine:
Thou, my King, O reign within;
Let thy grace subdue my sin:
Every rising lust control;
Stamp thine image on my soul:
All my powers before thee fall;
Take them-not the tithe, but all.
HYMN CII. Gen. XXVIII. 20—22. (c. M.)
1 O GOD of Jacob, by whose hand Thine Israel still is fed;
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