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Thy vi&t'ries and thy deathless fame,
Thro’ the wide world shall run;
The triumphs thou hast won.
The great mysterious King;
And sweep th' immortal string.
Hion, behold thy King
Proclaim the Son of David's race,
And teach the babes to sing. Hosanna to th' incarnate Word,
Who from the Father came; Ascribe salvation to the Lord,
With blessings on his. Name,
HWho reigns ohia Superior throne ;
We bless the Prince of heav'nly birth,
FRIEND there is your voices join,
Ye Saints, to praise his name !
Whose love's a constant flame.
This friend is always near;
He waits to answer pray'r.
No change can turn its course;
From one eternal source.
And clouds surround his throne,
To make it better known.
And, if our dearest comforts fall
Before his sov'reign will,
Himself he gives us ftill!
And measures out our pains ;
His word its rage restrains !
128. L. M.
Th’immortal honors of thy name :
129. C. M. Altered by TOPLADY.
We bless our Savior's name;
And bore the finner's shame.
* Ritvard of grace, not of debt.
His deep distress has rais'd us high,
His duty and his zeal
And finish'd all thy will.
Peace to finners giv’n; Mercy and truth together met,
When he came down from heav'n.
And set their hearts at: rest;
And live for ever bleft.
Grief, like a garment, cloath'd hiin round,
And sackcloth was his dress,
A robe of righteousness.
Our sweetest 'thoughts employ!
In palaces of joy !
As divine historians say,
Near to Kedron's brook it lay :
Thither, by their Mafter brought,
His disciples likewise came; There the heav'nly truth he taugbt,
Often set their hearts on flame Therefore they, as well as he, Visited Gethfemane.
Full of love to man's lost race,
On his conflict much he thought, This he knew the destin'd place,
And he lov'd the sacred spot ; Therefore 'twas he lik'd to be Often in Gethsemane.
Came at length the dreadful night,
Vengeance with its iron rod, Stood and with collected might
Bruis'd the harmless Lamb of God. See, my soul, thy Savior see, Grov'ling in Gethsemane.
Oh, what wonders love has done!
But how little understood ! God well knows, and God alone,
What produc'd that sweat of blood. Who can thy deep wouders see Wonderful Gethsemane.
There my God bore all niy guilt;
This thro' grace can be believ'd; But the horrors which he felt,
Are too vast to be conceiv'd. None can penetrate thro' thee, Doleful, dark Gethsemane !