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The Foundation of Christian Faith.

HYMN XVI.

The Triumphal Feaft for Chrift's Victory over Sin, Death, and Hell.

By Dr.Watts.

To London-New Tune.

Ome, let us lift our voices high,
High as our joys arise,

Co

And join the fongs above the sky,
Where pleasure never dies.

2 Jefus, the God that fought and bled,
And conquer'd when he fell,
That rofe, and at his chariot wheels
Drag'd all the pow'rs of hell.
3 Jefus the God invites us here
To this triumphal feast,

And brings immortal bleffings down
For each redeemed guest.

4 The Lord! how glorious is his face!
How kind his fmiles appear!

And O what melting words he says
To every humble ear!

5

"For

you, the children of my love,

"It was for you I dy'd,

"Behold my hands, behold my feet,

"And look into my fide.

6 "These are the wounds for you I bore, "The tokens of my pains,

"When

"When I came down to free

"From misery and chains.

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7 Juftice unfheath'd its fiery fword,
"And plung'd it in my heart!
"Infinite pangs for you I bore,

"And moft tormenting fmart.

8 "When bell and all its fpiteful pow'rs "Stood dreadful in my way,

"To rescue thofe dear lives of yours (6 I gave my own away.

9

"But while I bled, and groan'd, and "I ruin'd Satan's throne,

[dy'd, "High on my crofs I hung, and fpy'd

"The monster tumbling down.

ΤΟ Now you must triumph at my feaft, "And tafte my flefh, my blood;

"And live eternal ages blefs'd,

"For 'tis immortal food.

II Victorious God! what can we pay
For favours fo divine?

We would devote our hearts away
To be for ever thine.

12 We give thee, Lord, our highest praise,
The tribute of our tongues;
But themes fo infinite as these
Exceed our nobleft fongs.

HYMN

HYMN XVII.

A Happy Refurrection.

By Dr.Watts.

To the 100 Pfalm Tune.

No, I'll repine at death no more,

But with a chearful gafp refign

To the cold dungeon of the grave
These dying, withering limbs of mine.

2 Let worms devour my wafting flesh,
And crumble all my bones to duft,
My God fhall raise my frame anew
At the revival of the juft.

3 Break, facred morning, thro' the skies, Bring that delightful, dreadful day,

Cut fhort the hours, dear lord, and come,
Thy ling'ring wheels, how long they stay!

[4 Our weary fpirits faint to fee
The light of thy returning face,
And hear the language of thofe lips
Where God has fhed his richest grace.]

[5 Haste then upon the wings of love,
Rouse all the pious fleeping clay,
That we may join in heav'nly joys.
And fing the triumph of the day.]

HYMN