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While here o'er earth we rove;
The kindling of Thy love.
All time, and toil, and care:
If Thou, my God, art here.
And bid my heart rejoice;
And echo to Thy voice.
'Tis all I wish to seek ;
And hear Thee inly speak.
'Till I Thy glory see!
And find my heav'n in Thee.
Enjoyment of Christ.
Let my religious hours alone:
I wait a visit, LORD, from Thee.
And kindles with a pure desire;
3 Bless'd Jesus, what delicious fare !
How sweet Thy entertainments are!
Redeeming grace, and dying love.
In Thee Thy FATHER's glories shine;
Hymn. Longing to praise Christ better. 1 LORD, when my thoughts with wonder roll
O'er the sharp sorrows of Thy soul,
Repair'd and honour'd by the cross; 2 When I behold death, hell, and sin,
Vanquish'd by that dear blood of Thine,
Sit glorious by His FATHER's side; 3 My passions rise and soar above,
I'm wing’d with faith, and fir'd with love:
And learn the notes that Gabriel sings.
For want of their immortal strains ;
Must fall below Thy victories.
When we shall leave these bodies here,
Hidden life of a Christian.
1 O HAPPY soul! that lives on high,
While men lie grov'lling here! His hopes are fix'd above the sky,
And faith forbids his fear.
2 His conscience knows no secret stings,
While peace and joy combine
Are hidden and divine.
3 He waits in secret on his God;
His God in secret sees :
He dwells in heav'nly peace.
4 His pleasures rise from things unseen,
Beyond this world and time,
Nor thoughts of sinners climb.
5 He wants no pomp nor royal throne
To raise His figure here;
6 He looks to heav'n's eternal hill
To meet that glorious day;
To fetch His soul away.
Heavenly joy on earth. 1
COME, we that love the LORD,
And let our joys be known;
And thus surround the throne, 2 The sorrows of the mind
Be banish'd from the place!
To make our pleasures less.
That never knew our God;
May speak their joys abroad.
Our FATHER, and our love ;
To carry us above.
And never, never sin;
To that immortal state,
Should constant joys create. 7 The men of grace have found
Glory begun below;
From faith and hope may grow.
8 The hill of Sion yields
A thousand sacred sweets,
Or walk the golden streets. 9 Then let our songs abound,
And ev'ry tear be dry;
To fairer worlds on high.
"Fis music to my ear;
That earth and heav'n might hear. 2 Yes, Thou art precious to my soul,
My transport and my trust; Jewels to Thee are gaudy toys,
And gold is sordid dust. 3 All my capacious pow'rs can wish,
In Thee doth richly meet; Nor to my eyes is light so dear,
Nor friendship half so sweet.
And shed it's fragrance there;
The cordial of it's care.
With my last lab'ring breath;
The antidote of death,