"Prove that thou art
A pilgrim; daily die;
Of death get the start,
And live eternally.
I, that in Abr'ham's heart dwelt many a day,
To Abr'ham's bosom now shew thee the way.
"Fear always; yet
Faint never; eye the cloud,
That doth beset
Thee, that triumphant crowd;
Look unto Jesus; watch the word of command, Which, when thou hast done all these things, is, Stand."
HOPE is next door to heaven's gate;
'Tis but a step from this to that;
Nay, hope doth heaven antedate,
And bring down hither.
Hope's th' antidote against despair;
Coffin of fear; and couch of care;
Cradle of patience; hope hath fair
Even in foul weather.
Hope hath an harvest in the spring;
In winter doth of summer sing;
Feeds on the fruits whilst blossoming,
Yet nips no bloom.
Hope brings me home when I'm abroad,
As soon's the first step homeward's trod;
In hope to Thee, my God! my God!
I come, I come.
'Tis hope that doth the sower feed;
nis seeu,
Who seems to cast away
But doth preserve in very deed,
And mend his store.
I am a seedsman too, my Lord!
And, but for hope Thou wouldst afford
Thy blessing, when I sow Thy word,
I had forbore.
I am a seedsman; every tear
I sow in hope, will bring an ear,
Fit for Thy floor in time of
For Thee to gather :
Were't not for hope the heart, some say,
Would break; yet hope led me one day
Weeping along the milky way
To Thee, O Father!
I'll turn a singer, and my song
Shall be by book, lest I go wrong:
For I've not skilled of music long,
Or holy mirth.
Weeping into the world I came,
Bringing a world of sin and shame
Bearing the first apostate's blame
Even at my birth.
What though mine haven-heaven-lie
Beyond the Dead Sea? what though I
Decease? mine hope shall never die,
What though I walk through the vale of tears?
Hope is a staff that ever bears;
Hope is a rod, chasing my fears,
Guiding my way.
Therefore my dying tongue shall sing:
Yea, even my flesh, that fading thing,
Shall rest in hope for that day-spring
All th' night of death.
And when I lay my weary head
And bones in the grave, as in a bed,
Let not the mourner say, He's dead,
But slumbereth.
Yet bony death sometimes looks in,
Bringing a list of all my sin,
Pinching mine hope, till it looks thin,
And's like to die :
Death in my very face doth stare
So ghastly, as if it meant to scare
And fright mine hope into despair.
Yet seen have I
On both hands of a Friend, once slain,
But since return'd to life again,
A better story printed plain :
My sight's but dim;
Yet in the print of the nails I see
Life in a Saviour's hands for me,
Whilst, as He hung upon the tree,
Hope hangs on Him;
And still shall hang on Him, until
My bones have learn'd to climb that hill
Where now He sits, and whence He will
Yet come down hither,
That He may gather into one
Each dust of His, and scatter'd bone
Then shall He, as a living stone,
Translate me thither.
HARK, my soul, how every thing
Strives to serve our bounteous King;
Each a double tribute pays,
Sings its part, and then obeys.
Nature's chief and sweetest quire
Him with cheerful notes admire ;
Chanting every day their lauds,
While the grove their song applauds.
Though their voices lower be,
Streams have too their melody;
Night and day they warbling run,
Never pause, but still sing on.
All the flowers that gild the spring
Hither their still music bring;
If Heaven bless them, thankful they
Smell more sweet, and look more gay.
Only we can scarce afford
This short office to our Lord;
We, on whom His bounty flows,
All things gives, and nothing owes.
Wake, for shame, my sluggish heart,
Wake, and gladly sing thy part;
Learn of birds, and springs, and flowers,
How to use thy nobler powers.
Call whole Nature to thy aid,
Since 'twas He whole Nature made;
Join in one eternal song,
Who to one God all belong.
Live for ever, glorious Lord!
Live by all Thy works adored!
One in Three, and Three in One,
Thrice we bow to Thee alone!
How fading are the joys we dote upon,
Like apparitions seen and gone:
But those which soonest take their flight,
Are the most exquisite and strong.
Like angels' visits, short and bright;
Mortality's too weak to bear them long.
No power can justly praise Him but must be
As great, as infinite as He.
He comprehends His boundless self alone,
Created minds too shallow are and dim
His works to fathom, much more Him.
Our praise at height will be
Short by a whole infinity,
Of all His glorious Deity,
He cannot have the full, a nd stands in need of none.
He can't be less, nor can He more receive,
But stands one fixed superlative.
He's in Himself compendiously blest;
We, acted by the weights of strong desire,
To good without ourselves aspire;
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