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When shall my labours have an end,
In joy and peace, and thee?

2 When shall these eyes thy heaven-built walls,
And pearly gates behold?

Thy bulwarks with salvation strong,
And streets of shining gold?

3 There happier bowers than Eden's bloom,
Nor sin nor sorrow know:

Blest seats! through rude and stormy scenes
I onward press to you.

4 Why should I shrink from pain and woe,
Or feel at death dismay?

I've Canaan's goodly land in view,
And realms of endless day.

5 Apostles, martyrs, prophets, there
Around my Saviour stand;
And soon my friends in Christ below
Will join the glorious band.

6 Jerusalem, my happy home!
My soul still pants for thee:
Then shall my labours have an end,
When I thy joys shall see.

Anon. [1801].

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Commandments.

116.

From the "Harmonia Perfecta."

1

E

REV. VII. 13-17.

XALTED high at God's right hand,
Nearer the throne than cherubs stand,
With glory crown'd, in white array,
My wondering soul says, who are they?
2 These are the saints beloved of God,
Wash'd are their robes in Jesus' blood,
More spotless than the purest white
They shine in uncreated light.

3 Through tribulation great they came,
They bore the cross, and scorned the shame :
Within the Living Temple blest,

In God they dwell, and on Him rest.

4 Hunger they ne'er shall fear again,
Nor burning thirst shall they sustain:
To wells of living water led,
By God the Lamb for ever fed.

5 Unknown to mortal ears, they sing
The secret glories of their King:
Tell me the subject of their lays,
And whence their loud exalted praise?

6 Jesus, the Saviour, is their theme;
They sing the wonders of His Name;
To Him ascribing power and grace,
Dominion, and eternal praise.

7 Amen! they cry, to Him alone,
Who dares to fill His Father's throne;
They give Him glory, and again

Repeat His praise, and say, Amen!

Rowland Hill, 1783.

St. Pancras.

117.

JONATHAN BATTISHILL.

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HAPPY saints, who dwell in light,
And walk with Jesus, clothed in white;

Safe landed on that peaceful shore,
Where pilgrims meet to part no more.
2 Released from sin, and toil, and grief,
Death was their gate to endless life;
An open'd cage, to let them fly
And build their happy nest on high.
3 And now they range the heavenly plains,
And sing their hymns in melting strains;
And now their souls begin to prove
The heights and depths of Jesus' love.
4 He cheers them with eternal smile;
They sing hosannas all the while;
Or, overwhelm'd with rapture sweet,
Sink down adoring at His feet.

5 Ah! Lord! with tardy steps I creep,
And sometimes sing, and sometimes weep;
Yet strip me of this house of clay,

And I will sing as loud as they.

John Berridge, 1785.

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