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And dear to me the loud Amen,

Which echoes through the blest abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again,

Dies on the walls, but lives to God. And dear the rustic harmony,

Sung with the pomp of village art; That holy, heavenly melody,

The music of a thankful heart.

In secret I have often pray'd,

And still the anxious tear would fall; But, on thy sacred altar laid,

The fire descends, and dries them all. Oft when the world, with iron hands,

Has bound me in its six days' chain, This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,

And lets my spirit loose again. Then dear to me the Sabbath

morn ; The village bells, the shepherd's voice; These oft have found my heart forlorn,

And always bid that heart rejoice. Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,

Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms; Ours be the prophet's car of fire,

That bears us to a Father's arms.


Is there a time when moments flow

a More lovelily than all beside ?

Įt is, of all the times below,

A Sabbath eve in summer tide.

0! then the setting sun smiles fair,

And all below, and all above,
The different forms of nature wear

One universal garb of love.
And then the peace that Jesus beams,

The life of grace, the death of sin, With nature's placid woods and streams,

Is peace without, and peace within. Delightful scene! a world at rest,

A God all love, no grief nor fear, A heavenly hope, a peaceful breast,

A smile unsullied by a tear. If heaven be ever felt below,

A scene so heavenly, sure, as this May cause a heart on earth to know

Some foretaste of celestial bliss.

Delightful hour! how soon will night

Spread her dark mantle o'er thy reign; And morrow's quick returning light

Must call us to the world again. Yet will there dawn at last a day,

A SUN that never sets shall rise; Night will not veil his ceaseless ray,

The heavenly Sabbath never dies !




Is there a lone and dreary hour
When worldly pleasures lose their power ?
My Father ! let me turn to thee,
And set each thought of darkness free,
Is there a time of racking grief,
Which scorns the prospect of relief?
My Father! break the cheerless gloom,
And bid my heart its calm resume.
Is there an hour of peace and joy,
When hope is all my soul's employ?
My Father! still my hopes will roam,
Until they rest with thee, their home.

The noontide blaze, the midnight scene,
The dawn or twilight's sweet serene,
The sick, nay, e'en the dying hour,
Shall own my






God moves in a mysterious way,

His wonders to perform ;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,

And works his sovereign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;

The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense

But trust him for his grace ;
Behind a frowning providence

He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter,

And he will make it plain.



O THINK that, while you 're weeping here,

His hand a golden harp is stringing ;
And, with a voice serene and clear,
His ransom'd soul, without a tear,

His Savior's praise is singing!
And think that all his pains are fled,
His toils and sorrows closed forever;

While He, whose blood for man was shed,
Has placed upon his servant's head

A crown that fadeth never!

And think that, (in that awful day,

When darkness sun and moon is shading) The form that, ʼmidst its kindred clay, Your trembling hands prepare to lay,

Shall rise to life unfading !

Then weep no more for him, who's gone

Where sin and suffering ne'er shall enter; But on that great High Priest alone, Who can for guilt like ours atone,

Your own affections centre !

For thus, when round your lowly bier

Surviving friends are sadly bending,
Your souls, like his, to Jesus dear,
Shall wing their flight to yonder sphere,

Faith lightest pinions lending.

And thus, when to the silent tomb

Your lifeless dust like his is given, Like faith shall whisper, 'midst the gloom, That yet again, in youthful bloom,

That dust shall smile in heaven !


THERE is a world we have not seen,

That time shall never dare destroy,

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