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Though now divided by the stream
The narrow stream of death.
One army of the living God,
To his command we bow;
And part are crossing now.
Even now to their eternal home
Some happy spirits fly:
And soon expect to die !
O Jesus, be our constant guide ;
Then when the word is giv'n,
Edinburgh Sacred Poetry.
How wilt thou do in the swelling of Jordan ? Dark river of death, that is flowing
Between the bright city and me, Thou boundest the path I am going,
O how shall I pass over thee
When the cold stormy waters rise o'er me,
And earth disappears from my sight,When a cloud rises thickly before me,
And veils all my spirits in night?
O death! thou last portion of sorrow,
The prospect of heaven is bright;
And fair is the dawn of its morrow,
But stormy and dreadful the night!
O thou who hast broken the pow'r
of this the last victor of men, Be with me in that solemn hour,
O grant me deliverance then !
The glory from Calvary streaming,
May shine o'er the cold sable wave; And the faith that is oftentimes beaming, May burst thro' the gloom of the grave.
For we who have believed do enter into rest.
Delusive world, farewell!
By grief and sin distress'd,
That thou art not my rest !
Once thou wert all I sought
To fill this anxious breast,
That thou wert not my rest.
But oft would guilt appear
In legal horrors drest,
Denied my hope of rest!
And long with heartfelt pain,
By inward woes oppress’d
Some friendly hand I ask'd in vain,
To point a place of rest.
Till hastning from above,
A self invited guest,
Proclaimed himself my rest.
No longer canst thou fill,
False world, this peaceful breast; No more thy frowns my comforts kill,
Since Jesus is my rest.
He bids that scene arise
Which life and love invest;
And pant for heavenly rest.
Yes! I shall join the throng,
By his own voice confest,
Edinburgh Sacred Poetry.
Christ our Example in Suffering.
Go to dark Gethsemane,
Follow to the judgment-hall,
Calvary's mournful mountain climb;
It is finished,' hear him cry;
Early hasten to the tomb
I quit the world's fantastic joys,
Her honors are but empty toys,
Like meteors in the midnight sky,
Her glories flash and fade.
O source of glory, life, and love!
When to thy courts I mount above
On contemplation's wings,
I look with pity and disdain
On all the pomp of kings.
Thy beauties rising to my sight.
Divinely sweet, divinely bright, With rapture fill my breast;
Though robb’d of all my worldly store, In thee I never can be poor, But must be ever blest..
Not ashamed of Jesus.
Jesus, and can it ever be,
Ashamed of Jesus! yes, I may,
Ashamed of Jesus! that dear friend,
Till then-nor is the boasting vain-