72. C. M. TOPLADY'S Col. Converting Grace. HALL, mighty Jefus ; how divine Is thy victorious sword! The ftouteft rebel must refign, Deep are the wounds thy arrows give: Still gird thy fword upon thy thigh, Go forth, great Prince, triumphantly, And when thy vict'ries are complete; Shall round the throne of glory meet, And I with them, thy praise will found 73. C. M. The Atonement. OW is our nature marr'd by fin! HOW A way to make the confcience clean, Or heal the wounded mind. Come, all ye pining, hungry poor, Here fhall your num'rous wants receive Can those who hear the Savior's voice, (Ah, wretched fouls! ah, fatal choice!) To everlasting joys? Lord, bring unwilling fouls to thee, Thy boundless grace, let rebels fee, T 76. L. M. WATTS'S M. Redemption. HE mighty frame of glorious grace, That brightest monument of praise, That e'er the God of Love defign'd, Employs and fills my lab'ring mind. Begin my foul, the heav'nly fong, A burden for an Angel's tongue: When Gabriel founds thefe awful things, He tunes and fummons all his ftrings. Proclaim inimitable love, Jefus, the Lord of worlds above, He that diftributes crowns and thrones' Who thall fulfil this boundlefs fong? 77. No Sevens. MADAN'S Col. OW begin the heav'nly, theme, E Tho', alas! ye long have been We will therefore praise the Lord, FERCY is welcome news indeed, Mothofe that guilty, ftand Wretches, who feel the help they need, Who rightly would his alms dispose, None, but the wounded patient, knows We all have finn'd against our God; But, let our debts be what they may, 'Tis perfect poverty, alone, That fets the foul at large: While we can call one mite our own, We have no full difcharge. 79. L. M. GIBBONS and WATTS. Forgiveness. ORGIVENESS! 'tis a joyful found To malefactors doom'd' to die : Publifh the blifs the, world around; Ye Seraphs, fhout it from the tky! "Tis the rich gift of love divine; 'Tis full, out-meas'ring ev'ry crime; Unclouded fhall its glories fhine, And feel no change by changing time. O'er fins unnumber'd as the fand, And like the mountains for their fize, The feas of fov'reign grace expand, The feas of fov'reign grace arife.Great God! what poor returns we pay For love fo infinite as thine! Words are but air, and tongues but clay; O could our thankful hearts devise To the third heav'n our fongs fhould rife, |