20. I would begin the mufick here,
And fo my foul fhould rife:
Oh for fome heavenly notes to bear
My fpirits to the skies!
21. There, ye that love my Saviour, fit,
There I would fain have place,
Amongst your thrones, or at your feet,
So I might fee his face.
22. I am confin'd to earth no more,
But mount in haste above,
To bless the GOD that I adore,
And fing the MAN I love.
For the folemn Faft of LENT. Out of the 51ft Pfalm. 100 Pfalm Tune.
LORD, look upon my finful foul,
That unto thee for mercy flies;
As thy compaffions boundless are,
So blot out mine iniquities.
O wash me throughly from my crimes,
For thou alone canft make me clean:
With tears I now confefs my guilt,
Amaz'd to see how vile I've been.
None else can call me to account;
But thy tribunal, Lord! I fear:
For if arraign'd and judg'd by thee,
I must be caft, and thou be clear.
I was conceiv'd and born in fin,
Too prone and bent to do amifs;
But inward purity to thee,
And truth of heart most pleasing is..
My fins have forfeited the joys,
And inward peace that once I had;
Thy pard'ning voice would heal again
My broken bones, and make me glad.
No longer, Lord, behold my fins
With a fevere and angry look:
O take their stains out of my foul,
And blot their guilt out of thy book.
Create in me, O God, a heart
Clean and unspotted in thy fight;
Renew a well-compofed mind,
Unmov'd from goodness and upright.
Thou, Lord, a broken, contrite heart, Doft more than bloody Off'rings prize: This prefent now I humbly make, Which God, I trust, will not despise.
For Sunday-Morning, on the Pleasure of Divine Worship.
Out of the 84th Pfalm. To St. David's Tune.
OW beaut❜ous is the place, where thou
Thy presence, Lord, doft grant:
Oh how I long t'approach thy courts,
Impatient of restraint.
O happy men, that may frequent
Thine house, to praise thee ftill,
Whose truft is in thine aid, whose heart
Devout affections fill.
A thousand joyous days elsewhere,
Yield me not fuch content,
As one day's freedom at thy house,
And in thy service spent,
There let me have the meaneft place,
And at the threshold lie,
Rather than all the wickeds ftate,
Without this liberty.
For all the fprings of joy and life,
Derived are from thee;
From thy continu'd favour flows
All our felicity,
Surely the goodness of the Lord
Shall crown my future days,
I will frequent his house to fhew
His love, and fing his praise,
All glory to the facred three,
One everliving Lord;
As at the firft, ftill may be be,
Belov'd, obey'd, ador'd,
HYMN IX.
Of Seraphick Love.
For the Lord's-Day, and after the Sacrament.
To the 100 Pfalm Tune, or any other of that
Hear up, my foul, and mount on high,
And to the choir of angels fly:
Hear what they fing, and what they fay,
Love, their feraphick tongues difplay:
The love of JESUS, him that dy'd,
And barb'rously was crucify'd;
Dy'd for apoftate man, for thee,
Bury'd in fin and mifery.
Čome joyn, thy voice with that bright
And warm thy felf with altar fire:
Fire from that altar where Christ bled,
And for thy fins his gore did fhed.
It's done; I'll fing, the theme is great,
Of love, of fou'reign love, I'll treat:
Love that in death and wounds doth fhine,
And hell and fin did undermine.
O love! too bright for mortals eyes; From heav'n thou cam'it, and fhot'ft the
[skies; And with thy beams the earth was fill'd Thofe rayes our wretched fouls did gild.
It's Ocean all, I find no end;
It does all words and thoughts transcend:
I must be filent, and admire
What would both wit and language tire.
Yet to the primitive fpring I'll go,
And there my foul in groans fhall flow,
Defcend thou white unfpotted dove,
And teach my tongue to fing of love.
O Jefu! holy, great, and good,
Whose love to me was writ in blood;
With that make clean my spotted foul,
And in that foul all fin controul.
Come, Holy Spirit, lodge thou here
Within my heart, and stay thou there:
That den of thieves a temple make,
And then no more that house forfake.
I've vow'd my Life, my All, to thee,
And may this vow moft facred be;
Let no temptation alter it,
Or make me for thy love unfit,
HYMN X.
The Divine Perfections.
By Dr.Watts. To Sion Tune; or, as Pfal. 23.
OW fhall I praife th' eternal God,
That Infinite Unknown?
Who can ascend his high abode,
Or venture near his throne?
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