His the Spirit's sacred fire,
All his theme the King of Kings.
2 Others sing of worldly things,
Themes like these to men belong;
But when Israel's Psalmist sings,
Sacred themes inspire his song.
3 Listen, listen while he sings,
Jesus is his glorious theme;
Jesus is the King of Kings,
"Tis his joy to sing of him.
4 How should we delight to hear
Strains that hope and love impart,
Strains of joy for mortal ear,
Strains that captivate the heart.
5 Son of Jesse, sound the lyre,.
Bear our willing souls along;
Thine the prophet's noly fire,
'Thine his theme, and thine his song.
SABBATH EVENING HYMN.
1 Ere yet the ev'ning star, with silver ray, Sheds its mild lustre on this sacred day, Let us resume, with thankful hearts again, The rites that heav'n and holiness ordain.
2 Still let those precious truths our thoughts engage, [page; Which shine reveal'd on inspiration's Nor those blest hours in vanity be pass'd, Which all who lavish will lament at last.
3 O God, our Saviour, in our hearts abide, Thy blood redeems us and thy precepts guide; [friend; In life our guardian, and in death our Glory supreme be thine, till time shall end! 4 And as yon sun descending rolls away, To rise in glory at return of day, So may we set, our transient being o'er, So rise in glory on the eternal shore!
THE SAVIOUR'S RIGHTEOUSNESS.
1 The countless multitude on high,
Who tune their songs to Jesus' name,
All merit of their own deny,
And Jesus' worth alone proclaim.
2 Firm on the ground of sov'reign grace,
They stand before Jehovah's throne;
The only song in that bless'd place,
Is-"Thou art worthy! thou alone!"
3 With spotless robes of purest white,
And branches of triumphal palm,
They shout, with transports of delight,
Heav'n's ceaseless universal psalm,
4 Salvation's glory all be paid
To Him who sits upon the throne,
And to the Lamb, whose blood was shed,
Thou! Thou art worthy! Thou alone.
5 For thou wast slain; and in thy blood
These robes were wash'd so spotless pure;
Thou mad'st us kings and priests to God-
For ever let thy praise endure!
6 While thus the ransom'd myriads shout,
"Amen!" the holy angels cry;
"Amen! Amen!" resounds throughout
The boundless regions of the sky.
7 Let us with joy adopt the strain
We hope to sing for ever there!
"Worthy's the Lamb for sinners slain,
Worthy alone the crown to wear!"
8 Without one thought that's good to plead,
O what could shield us from despair,
But this though we are vile indeed,
"The Lord our Righteousness" is there!
1 Triumphal arch that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud philosophy,
To teach me what thou art.
2 Still seem as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given,
For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
3 Can all that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?
4 When science from creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!
5 And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky.
6 When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's grey fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!
7 And when its yellow lustre smil'd,
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.
8 Methinks thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang,
On earth deliver'd from the deep,
And the first poet sang.
9 How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down.
10 As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
11 For faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.
MISSIONARY HYMN.
1 From Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain.
2 What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft on Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile;
In vain, with lavish kindness,
The gifts of God are strewn,
The heathen, in his blindness,
Bows down to wood und stone.
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