I'd fly from all labour and toil To the place, where the weary have rest; I'd haste from contention and broil To the peaceful abode of the blest. How holy, how happy are they, No tongue can express their delight! My soul, now unwilling to stay, Prepares for her heavenly flight. But no-my desire is not good, Impatience, not faith, is its source: While he, who redeem'd me with blood, Still says to me," Carry the cross.' HYMN 173. c. M. COME, let us join our cheerful songs, "Worthy the Lamb that died," they cry, "To be exalted thus"! "Worthy the Lamb" ! our hearts reply, "For he was slain for us." Lord, thou art worthy to receive HYMN 174 O, THROW away thy rod, S. M. O, throw away thy wrath; My gracious Father, and my God, Thou see'st my heart's desire Still does my longing soul aspire Altho' I fall, I weep; O throw away thy rod, What tho' man frailties hath, HYMN 175 L. M. HEAR what God, the Lord, hath spoken,"O my people, faint and few, Comfortless, afflicted, broken, Fair abodes I build for you. Thorns of heart-felt tribulation Shall no more perplex your ways; There, like streams that feed the garden, God shall rise, and shining o'er you, HYMN 176. S. M. FRIEND after friend departs ! Yes, there's a world above, HYMN 177. L. M. 'Tis mercy, wisdom, love divine, That mingles blessings with our cares ! Short-sighted mortals, frail and blind, HYMN 178. P. M. INSPIRER, and hearer of prayer, Thou Shepherd and Guardian of thine, My all to thy covenant care I sleeping and waking resign. If thou art my shield, and my sun, To watch while thy saints are asleep; Their circle for ever shall join, HYMN 179. L. M. HEAVEN is a place of rest from sin; Clean hearts, O God, in us create, The church of Christ, the means of grace, Firm in his footsteps may we tread, And be from grace to glory led, From heav'n below, to heav'n above. HYMN 180. C. M. ACCORDING to thy gracious word, This will I do, my dying Lord, When to the cross I turn mine eyes, O Lamb of God, my sacrifice! Remember thee, and all thy pains, Yes, while a pulse or breath remains And when these failing lips grow dumb, HYMN 181. C. M. THERE is a voice of sov'reign grace O may we hear this gracious call, To the pure fountain of thy blood Teach us, at once to fly; There may we wash our contrite souls From sins of deepest die! |