Y

Another.

E wretched, hungry, ftarving poor,
Behold a royal feaft!

Where mercy spreads her bounteous ftore,
For ev'ry willing gueft.

See, Jefus ftands with open arms;

He calls, he bids you come:

Guilt holds you back, and fear alarms ;
But fee, there yet is room

Room in the Savior's bleeding heart;
There love and pity meet:
Nor will he bid the foul depart,
That trembles at his feet.

O come, and with his children tafte
The bleffings of his love;
While hope attends the sweet repaft
Of nobler joys above.

There, with united heart and voice,
Before th' eternal throne,

Ten thousand thousand fouls rejoice,
In ecftafies unknown.

And yet ten thousand thousand more,
Are welcome ftill to come :
Ye longing fouls, the grace adore;
Approach, there yet is room.

321. Helmsley T.

WHITEFIELD's Col.

At Difmiffion,

ORD, difmifs us with thy bleffing,
Fill our hearts with joy and peace;

Let us now thy love poffeffing,
Triumph in redeeming grace:
O refresh us!

Trav'lling through this wilderness,
Thanks we give, and adoration,
For the gofpel's joyful found;
May the fruits of thy falvation
In our hearts and lives abound:
May thy prefence

With us evermore be found.

So, whene'er the fignal's given,
Us from earth to call away;
Borne on angel's wings to heav'n,
Glad the fummons to obey,

May we ever,

Reign with Chrift in endless day.

D

ISMISS us with thy bleffing, Lord, Help us to feed upon thy word, All that has been amifs forgive, And let thy truth within us live. Tho' we are guilty, thou art good, Wafh all our works in Jefus' blood; Give ev'ry fetter'd foul release, And bid us all depart in peace.

FA

Another.

ATHER, before we hence depart,
Send thy good Spirit down:

Let him refide in ev'ry heart,

And blefs the feed that's fown.
Thou Fountain of Eternal Love,
Who gav'ft thy Son to die;
Let thy fweet Unction, from above,
Enlighten and apply.

324. L. M.

The convinced Sinner encouraged,

WHO is the trembling finner, who

That owns eternal death his due? Who mourns his fin, his guilt, his thrall, And does on God for mercy call? Peace, troubled foul, difmifs thy fear, Hear, Jefus fpeaks, be of good cheer, Upon his grace and work rely, And thou fhalt never, never die.

L

THE DEVIL.

325... L. M. WATTS'S H.
Michael's War with the Dragon.

ET mortal tongues attempt to fing
The wars of heav'n when Michael stood

Chief gen'ral of th Eternal King,
And fought the battles of our God.

Against the dragon and his hoft
The armies of the Lord prevail :
In vain they rage, in vain they boast;
Their courage finks, their weapons
fail.

Down to the earth was fatan thrown;
Down to the pit his legions fell;
Then was the trump of triumph blown,
And fhook the dreadful deeps of hell.

Now is the hour of darkness past,
Chrift has affum'd his reigning pow`r;
Behold the great accuser caft

Down from the fkies, to rife no more.

'Twas by thy blood, immortal Lamb! Thine armies trod the tempter down; 'Twas by thy word, and pow'rful name, They gain'd the battle and renown.

Rejoice, ye heav'ns; let ev'ry ftar
Shine with new glories round the sky:
Saints, while ye fing the heav'nly war,
Raife your deliv'rer's name on high.

326.

L. M.

Doddridge.

Victory over Satan by the Blood of the Lamb.

EE the old dragon from his throne

Sink with enormous ruin down! Banish'd from heav'n, and doom'd to dwell Deep in the fiery gloom of hell!

Ye heav'ns, with all your hofts, rejoice:
Ye faints, in concert lend your voice:

Approach your Lord's victorious feat,
And tread the foe beneath your feet:

But whence a conqueft so divine
Gain'd by fuch feeble hands as mine?
Or whence can finful mortals boast
O'er fatan and his rebel-hoft?

'Twas from thy blood, thou flaughter'd Lamb,
That all our palms and triumphs came;
Thy crofs, thy fpear, inflicts the ftroke,
By which the monster's head is broke.

Thy faithful word our hope maintains
Thro' all our combat and our pains;
The accents of thy heav'nly breath
Thy foldiers bear thro' wounds and death.

Triumphant-Lamb, in worlds unknown,
With transport round thy radiant throne,
Thy happy legions, all complete,
Shall lay their laurels at thy feet.

"T

Satan Repulfed.

IS falfe thou vile accufer, go,
I fee thro' all the thin difguife;-
Back, to thy native realms below,
Thou parent of deceit and lies!

Think not to drive my trembling foul,
Laden with guilt, to black defpair;
Haft thou furvey'd the facred roll,
And found my name not written there?