Anticipations of Heaven.
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
FOR ever with the Lord!
Amen! so let it be!
Life from the dead is in that word, And immortality!
Here in the body pent,
Absent from Him I roam,
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent
A day's march nearer home.
My Father's house on high,
Home of my soul! how near,
At times, to faith's foreseeing eye,
Thy golden gates appear!
My thirsty spirit faints.
To reach the land I love,
The bright inheritance of saints,
Jerusalem above!
I hear at morn and even,
At noon and midnight hour,
The choral harmonies of heaven
Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower.
For ever with the Lord!
Father, if 'tis Thy will,
The promise of that faithful word
E'en here to me fulfil.
So when my latest breath
Shall rend the veil in twain,
By death I shall escape from death,
And life eternal gain.
The Dying Christian to his Soul.
Knowing as I am known,
How shall I love that word;
And oft repeat before the throne,
For ever with the Lord.
The Dying Christian to his Soul.
ALEXANDER POPE.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper,-angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away."
What is this absorbs me quite,—
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes, it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes: my ears
With sounds seraphic ring.
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O grave, where is thy victory?
O death, where is thy sting?
From Greenland's Jcy Mountains.
Bishop Heber.—Music by Sir H. Bishop.
ROM 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.
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile;
In vain with lavish kindness
The gifts of God are strown,
The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone.
Can we whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,
Can we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny!
Salvation! O Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation
Has learnt Messiah's Name.
Waft, waft, ye winds, His story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till like a sea of glory
It spreads from pole to pole,
Till o'er our ransom'd nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign. Amen.
Sound the Loud Timbrel.
THOMAS MOORE.—Air, Avison.
OUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea,
Jehovah has triumph'd—His people are free.
Sing! for the pride of the tyrant is broken,
His chariots, his horsemen all splendid and brave.
How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea,
Jehovah has triumph'd-His people are free.
Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord;
His breath was our arrow, His word was our sword.
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story
Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord hath look'd out from His pillar of glory,
And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea,
Jehovah has triumph'd-His people are free.
RE God had built the mountains,
E Or raised the fruitful hills;
Before He fill'd the fountains
That fed the running rills;
In me, from everlasting,
The wonderful I AM
Found pleasures never wasting,
And Wisdom is my Name.
When, like a tent to dwell in,
He spread the skies abroad,
And swathed about the swelling
Of Ocean's mighty flood;
He wrought by weight and measure,
And I was with Him then:
Myself the Father's pleasure,
And Mine, the sons of men.
Thus Wisdom's words discover
Thy glory and Thy grace,
Thou everlasting Lover
Of our unworthy race!
Thy gracious eye survey'd us
Ere stars were seen above;
In wisdom Thou hast made us,
And died for us in love.
And couldst Thou be delighted
With creatures such as we,
Who, when we saw Thee, slighted
And nail'd Thee to a tree?
Unfathomable wonder!
And mystery divine!
The voice that speaks in thunder,
Says, "Sinner, I am thine!"
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