HYMN 436. 8 & 7s. M. [#] Devotional Praise. 1 PRAISE to thee, thou great Creator; 2 For ten thousand blessings given, Sound his praise through earth and heaven, HYMN 437. S. M. [#] Pure Devotion. 1 LET pure devotion rise, Ascend like incense to the skies, 2 His word, like drops of dew, Subdues and fashions us anew, 3 His grace our faith sustains, And dissipates our fear, Binds all our wounds, abates our pains, And gives us comforts here. 4 He bids our willing eyes Look through the gloomy shade, To joys immortal in the skies, That never cloy nor fade. CONSOLATORY SUBJECTS. HYMN 438. C. M. [b] God the Source of Consolation. 1 WHEN 'reft of all, and hopeless care 2 No balm that earthly plants distil 3 But One alone, who reigns above, And light the lamp of life and love 4 Then, O my soul, to that One flee; HYMN 439. L. M. [b] Death the Gate of endless Joy. 1 WHY should we start and fear to die? What timorous worms we mortals are! Death is the gate of endless joy, 2 The pains, the groans, and dying strife, Fright our approaching souls away; Still we shrink back again to life, Fond of our prison and our clay. 3 O, if my Lord would come and meet, 4 Jesus can make a dying bed Feel soft as downy pillows are, HYMN 440. C. M. [b] Comfort under Bereavements. 1 WHY do we mourn departed friends, Or shake at death's alarms? 'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends To call them to his arms. 2 Are we not tending upward, too, Nor would we wish the hours more slow, 3 Why should we tremble to convey There the dear flesh of Jesus lay, 4 Thence he arose, ascended high, Up to the Lord our souls shall fly 5 Then let the last loud trumpet sound, HYMN 441. L. P. M. [b] On the Death of Friends. 1 C, GoD of my salvation, hear 2 Thy hand lies heavy on my soul, While dust and silence spread the gloom : 3 As lost in lonely grief I tread 4 My friends are gone, my comforts fled, Recalls my wandering thoughts to mourn; But, through each melancholy day, HYMN 442. C. M. [b or #] 1 LET others boast how strong they be, 2 Fresh as the grass our bodies stand, 3 Our life contains a thousand springs, Strange, that a harp of thousand strings 4 But 'tis our God supports our frame, That reared us from the dust. 5 While we have breath, or use our tongues, Our Maker we'll adore : His spirit moves our heaving lungs, HYMN 443. S. M. [b or #] Comfort in Sickness and Death. 1 WHEN sickness shakes the frame, Each dazzling pleasure flies; |