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Let not our sins thy vengeance move;
To turn our heav'n to brass above;
Or hard’n into iron our earth,
And o’er our fields to spread a dearth :

But pour in season on the grain
The former and the latter rain ;
And in proportion due, supply
The needful change of wet and dry.

Forbid the vermin to devour ;
Forbid the mildew's blasting show'r ;
Forbid the tempest to destroy
My growing crop, and promis’d joy.

Crown with thy goodness, Lord, the year,
And let thy blessings round appear :
Let vales be cloth’d with grass and corn ;
And hills let various flocks adorn.

Give to the sons of men their bread;
Let beasts with fattning grass be fed :
All things in plenty, Lord, provide,
That all our wants may be supplied.

Give us abundance, Lord, we pray,
From fields of corn, from meads of hay ;
Of fruits, from orchards' grafted stocks ;
Of milk, from all the milky flocks.

Thou, Lord, vouchsafe to bless our land
And ev'ry work we take in hand :
And grant, for all thy gifts we may
Return thee praises night and day.

SECTION 25.

A hymn of praise.

Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines ; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat ; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls : yet I will rejoice in the Lord ; I will joy in the God of my salvation. HABAKKUK iii. 17, 18.

PRAISE to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days :
Bounteous source of ev'ry joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ!

For the blessings of the field ;
For the stores the gardens yield ;
For the vine's exalted juice :
For the gen’rous olive's use.

Flocks that whiten all the plain ;
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain ;
Clouds that drop their fatt'ning dews;
Suns that temp’rate warmth diffuse :

All that Spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that lib’ral Autumn pours,
From her rich o'erflowing stores :

These to thee, my God, we owe;
Source whence all our blessings flow!
And for these, my soul shall raise
Grateful vows, and solemn praise.

Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear,
From its stem, the rip’ning ear;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot,
Drop her green, untimely fruit;
Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store ;
Though the sick’ning flocks should fall,
And the herds desert their stall ;

Should thine alter'd hand restrain
The early and the latter rain ;
Blast each op’ning bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy :
Yet, to thee my soul should raise
Grateful vows, and solemn praise ;
And, when ev'ry blessing's flown,
Love thee,-for thyself alone.

SECTION 26.
Hymn on the birth of Christ.
ARISE, and hail the happy day;
Cast all low cares of life away,

And thought of meaner things !
This day to cure all deadly woes,
The sun of Righteousness arose,

With healing in his wings.
If angels, on that happy morn
The Saviour of the world was born,

Pour'd forth their joyful songs; Much more should we of human race, Adore the wonders of his grace,

To whom that grace belongs.

How wonderful, how vast, his love!
Who left the shining realms above,

Those happy seats of rest!
How much for human kind he bore,
Their peace and pardon to restore,

Can never be express’d. 0! then, let Hear'n and Earth rejoice ; Let ev'ry creature join his voice,

To hail the happy day;
When Satan's empire vanquish'd fell,
And all the pow'rs of death and hell

Confess’d his sov'reign sway.

SECTION 27.
Hymn on the resurrection of Christ.
This day be grateful homage paid,

And loud hosannas sung ;
Let gladness dwell in ev'ry heart,

And praise on ev'ry tongue.
Ten thousand diff’ring lips shall join,

To hail this welcome morn;
Which scatters blessings from its wings,

To nations yet unborn.
Jesus, the friend of human kind,

With strong compassion mov'd,
Descended from the realms above,

To save the souls he lov'd.
The pow'rs of darkness leagu'd in vain,

To bind his soul in death ;
He shook their kingdom when he fell,

With his expiring breath.

And now his conqu’ring chariot wheels

Ascend the lofty skies ; While brok’n, beneath his pow'rful cross,

Death’s iron sceptre lies,

Exalted high, to God's right hand,

The Lord of all below; Through him is pard'ning love dispens'd,

And boundless blessings flow.

And still, for erring, guilty man,

A brother's pity flows;
And still his bleeding heart is touch'd

With mem’ry of our woes.

To thee, my Saviour and my King !

Glad homage let me give;
And stand prepar'd like thee to die,

With thee that I may live.

SECTION 28.

The Christian's hope.

WAEN rising from the bed of death,

O’erwhelm'd with guilt and fear, I see my Maker, face to face,

O, how shall I appear ?

If yet while pardon may be found,

And mercy may be sought,
My heart with inward horror shrinks,
And trembles at the thought :

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