Part 80 (1/2)

BURIAL.

1 O thou! the first-fruits of the dead, And their dark bed, When I am cast into that deep And senseless sleep, The wages of my sin, O then, Thou great Preserver of all men, Watch o'er that loose And empty house, Which I sometime lived in!

2 It is in truth a ruined piece, Not worth thy eyes; And scarce a room, but wind and rain Beat through and stain The seats and cells within; Yet thou, Led by thy love, wouldst stoop thus low, And in this cot, All filth and spot, Didst with thy servant inn.

3 And nothing can, I hourly see, Drive thee from me.

Thou art the same, faithful and just, In life or dust.

Though then, thus crumbed, I stray In blasts, Or exhalations, and wastes, Beyond all eyes, Yet thy love spies That change, and knows thy clay.

4 The world's thy box: how then, there tossed, Can I be lost?

But the delay is all; Time now Is old and slow; His wings are dull and sickly.

Yet he Thy servant is, and waits on thee.

Cut then the sum, Lord, haste, Lord, come, O come, Lord Jesus, quickly!

'And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the first-fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.'--ROM. viii. 23.

CHEERFULNESS.

1 Lord, with what courage and delight I do each thing, When thy least breath sustains my wing!

I s.h.i.+ne and move Like those above, And, with much gladness Quitting sadness, Make me fair days of every night.

2 Affliction thus mere pleasure is; And hap what will, If thou be in't,'tis welcome still.

But since thy rays In sunny days Thou dost thus lend, And freely spend, Ah! what shall I return for this?

3 Oh that I were all soul! that thou Wouldst make each part Of this poor sinful frame pure heart!

Then would I drown My single one; And to thy praise A concert raise Of hallelujahs here below.

THE Pa.s.sION.

1 O my chief good!

My dear, dear G.o.d!

When thy blest blood Did issue forth, forced by the rod, What pain didst thou Feel in each blow!

How didst thou weep, And thyself steep In thy own precious, saving tears!

What cruel smart Did tear thy heart!

How didst thou groan it In the spirit, O thou whom my soul loves and fears!

2 Most blessed Vine!

Whose juice so good I feel as wine, But thy fair branches felt as blood, How wert thou pressed To be my feast!

In what deep anguish Didst thou languis.h.!.+

What springs of sweat and blood did drown thee!

How in one path Did the full wrath Of thy great Father Crowd and gather, Doubling thy griefs, when none would own thee!

3 How did the weight Of all our sins, And death unite To wrench and rack thy blessed limbs!

How pale and b.l.o.o.d.y Looked thy body!

How bruised and broke, With every stroke!

How meek and patient was thy spirit!

How didst thou cry, And groan on high, 'Father, forgive, And let them live!