3 O Death! where is thy fatal sting? Since Christ for all did die,

1

And rose that we might shout and sing
Grave! where 's thy victory?

HYMN CCCXXXVIII.

ET all created things in Seagrane

LET

Their cheerful voices raise,

And own the King of kings,
With thankful songs of praise.
Creating love

Should loud be sung,
Through ev'ry world
By ev'ry tongue.

2 Let angels round the throne,
In joyful ranks above,
His power and goodness own,
And his preserving love.

With thankful tongues
His praise proclaim,
And drop their crowns
To shout his name.

3 Let all old Adam's race,
Wherever they may be,
Shout the Redeemer's grace,
And to him bow the knee:
He dy'd for all,

And to restore
All things, he rose

To die no more.

270

1

WHY

does my tongue refuse to sing,
My heart so stupid lie,

When the great works of God my king
Do strike my wond'ring eye?

2 The massy globe on which I stand,
Hangs on his pow'r alone;
The ebbing sea begirt with sand,
His pow'r and glory own.

3 The humble shrub, the cedar high,
The tow'ring oak and pine,
Bespeak his awful majesty,

And own his arm divine.

The gilded arches spangle forth,
With lamps of shining light,
From east to west, from south to north;
His awful pow'r and might.

5 Bright sol, with his enlivening rays
Lends to the moon her light,
And joins in silent strokes to praise
The Maker day and night.

6 But who can count the vast detail
Of all that own his hand?

1

My time decays, my numbers fail,
And I must silent stand.

HYMN CCCXLhes & ea gran
bea

'HY love, O God, my feeble voice

ΤΗ

Would fain attempt, would try to speak,

But in the boundless ocean lost,

My thoughts too scant, my powers too weak.

2 To what can I thy love compare?
How can I set thy goodness forth?
Nothing, O Lord! on earth there are,
From east to west, from south to north.

3 If I compare it to a sea,

Without a bottom or a shore,

I see the great disparity,

A sea must end, and be no more. 4 If through the orbs of light I range, And should compare it to the moon; 'Tis wrong, the moon does often change, And here we see the diff'rence soon. 5 If to the sun, whose heav'nly rays Give life to nature here below; I blush, and check the warbling lays, Thy love first made the sun, we know. 6 If to the num'rous stars of heav'n,

1

That round the globe in myriads shine, They are but sparks thy love has giv❜n, They only flow from love divine.

HYMN CCCXLI. Tra C,
TEACH me the measure of my days,
Thou Maker of my frame!

I would survey life's narrow space,
And learn how frail I am.

2 A span is all that we can boast,
An inch or two of time;
Man is but vanity and dust,
In all his flow'r and prime.

3 See the vain race of mortals move,
Like shadows o'er the plain;

They rage and strive, desire and love,
But all the noise is vain.

4 Some walk in honour's gaudy show;
Some dig for golden ore;

They toil for heirs they know not who,
And straight are seen no more.

5 What should I wish or wait for, then,
From creatures, earth, and dust?
They make our expectations vain,
And disappoint our trust.

6 Now I forbid my carnal hope,
My fond desires recal;

I give my mortal int❜rest up,
And make my God my all.

HYMN CCCXLII.)ratts,

GOD of my life, look gently down!

Behold the pains I feel!

But I am dumb before thy throne,
Nor dare dispute thy will.

2 Diseases are thy servants, Lord!
They come at thy command:
I'll not attempt a murmuring word,
Against thy chast'ning hand.

3 Yet may I plead with humble cries,
Remove thy sharp rebukes;

My strength consumes, my spirit dies,
Through thy repeated strokes.

4 Crush'd as a moth beneath thy hand,
We moulder to the dust:

Our feeble pow'rs can ne'er withstand,
And all our beauty 's lost.

[5 This mortal life decays apace;

How soon the bubble 's broke!
Adam, and all his num'rous race,
Are vanity and smoke.]

6 I'm but a sojourner below,
As all my fathers were:
May I be well prepar'd to go,
When I the summons hear.

7 But if my life be spar'd a while,
Before my last remove,

Thy praise shall be my business still,
And I'll declare thy love.

HYMN CCCXLIII.

THUS saith the Lord, Your work is vain, 'Give your burnt-offerings o'er:

'In dying goats, and bullocks slain,

My soul delights no more.'

2 Then spake the Saviour, Lo! I'm here, 'My God, to do thy will;

'Whate'er thy sacred books declare,
( Thy Servant shall fulfil.

3 Thy law is ever in my sight,

'I keep it near my heart;

Mine ears are open'd with delight,
To what thy lips impart.'