by our guilt may be taken away, and our imperfect obedience accepted.

It is this series of thought that I have endeavoured to exprefs in the following hymn, which I have compofed during this my fickness.

W

Hen rifing from the bed of death,
O'erwhelm'd with guilt and fear,

I fee my Maker face to face,

O how fhall I appear!

2 If yet, while pardon may be found,
And mercy may be fought,

My heart with inward horror fhrinks,
And trembles at the thought;

3 When thou, O Lord, fhalt stand disclos'd In Majefty fevere,

And fit in judgment on my foul,

O how fhall I appear!

4 But thou haft told the troubled mind, Who does her fins lament,

The timely tribute of her tears

Shall endless woe prevent.

5 Then fee the forrows of my heart,
Ere yet it be too late;

And hear my Saviour's dying groans,
To give those forrows weight.
6 For never fhall my foul defpair
Her pardon to procure,

Who knows thine only Son has dy'd
To make her pardon fure.

HYMN XIX.

An ODE on the Sublime Thoughts of King DAVID. By Mr. Addifon.

To St. Luke's Tune: Or, as the 100 Pfalm.

TH

HE fpacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heav'ns, a fhining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
Th' unweary'd fun from day to day
Does his Creator's pow'r difplay,
And publifhes to ev'ry land,
The work of an Almighty Hand.

Soon as the evening fhades prevail,
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale,
And nightly to the lift'ning earth
Repeats the ftory of her birth,
Wilft all the stars, that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What, tho' in folemn filence all
Move round the dark terreftrial ball.
What, tho' no real voice nor found
Amidft their radiant orbs be found,
In reafon's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
Q 2

For

For ever finging as they fhine,

The Hand that made us is Divine.

HYMN XX.

The Shortness of Life, the Goodness of God,

By Dr.Watts.

TIM

To Canterbury Tune,

IME! what an empty vapour 'tis!
And days how fwift they are!

Swift as an Indian arrow flies,

Or like a shooting star.

[2 The present moments juft appear,
Then flide away in hafte,

That we can never fay, They're here,
But only fay, They're past.]
[3 Our life is ever on the wing,
And death is ever nigh;

The moment when our lives begin
We all begin to die.]

4 Yet, mighty God, our fleeting days
Thy lafting favours fhare,

Yet with the bounties of thy grace
Thou load'ft the rolling year.
5 'Tis fov'reign mercy finds us food,
And we are cloath'd with love:

While grace ftands pointing out the road,
That leads our fouls above.

6 His goodness runs an endless round; All glory to the Lord;

His mercy never knows a bound;
And be his name ador'd,

7 Thus we begin the lafting fong,
And when we close our eyes,
Let the next age thy praise prolong
Till time and nature dies.

HYMN XXI.

A Profpect of Heaven makes Death easy. By Dr.Watts. To St. Anne's Tune.

T

Here is a land of pure delight Where faints immortal reign; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain. 2 There everlasting spring abides, And never with'ring flow'rs: Death like a narrow fea divides This heav'nly land from ours. [3 Sweet fields beyond the fwelling flood Stand dreft in living green: So to the Jews old Canaan ftood, While Jordan roll'd between.

4 But tim❜rous mortals ftart and fhrink, To cross this narrow fea,

And linger fhiv'ring on the brink,

5

And fear to launch away.]

O could we make our doubts remove
Thofe gloomy doubts that rife,

And

And fee the Canaan that we love,
With unbeclouded eyes.

6 Could we but climb where Mofes ftood, And view the landskip o'er,

Not Jordan's ftream, nor death's cold flood, Should fright us from the shore.

HYMN. XXII.

The Divine Glories above our Reafon.

By Dr.Watts.

H°

To Sion Tune.

OW wond'rous great, how glorious
Muft our Creator be,

[bright Who dwells amidst the dazzling light Of vaft infinity?

2 Our foaring fpirits upwards rife,
Tow'rd the celeftial throne,

Fain would we see the Bleffed Three,
And the Almighty One.

3 Our reafon ftretches all its wings,
And climbs above the skies,
But ftill how far beneath thy feet
Our groveling reafon lies!

[4 Lord, here we bend our humble fouls, And awfully adore,

For the weak pinions of our mind

Can ftretch a thought no more.]

5 Thy glories infinitely rife Above our lab'ring tongue,