A selection of hymns, from various authors, adapted to public worship by T. Westlake

Tho', alas! ye long have been
Serving divers lufts and fin,
Jefus did the curfe remove,
Cancell'd by redeeming love.
He fubda'd th' infernal pow'rs,
His tremendous foes and ours,
From their curfed empire drove,
Mighty in redeeming love.

We will therefore praise the Lord,
Bless his name with one accord;
Ye, who Jefus' kindness prove,
Praise him for redeeming love.

78. C. M. HART.

Mercy.

[ERCY is welcome news indeed,

M To thofe that guilty ftand:

Wretches, who feel the help they need,
Will blefs the helping hand.

Who rightly would his alms difpose,
Muft give them to the poor:

None, but the wounded patient, knows
The comforts of a cure.

We all have finn'd against our God;
Exception none can boaft:
But he, that feels the heavieft load,
Will prize forgiveness moft.
No reck'ning can we rightly keep;
For who the fum can know?
Some fouls are fifty talents deep,
And fome five hundred owe.

But, let our debts be what they may,
However great, or small;
As foon as we have nought to pay,
Our Lord forgives us all.

'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 : Publish 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;
But thy forgiveness is divine.

O could our thankful hearts devise
A tribute equal to thy grace,

To the third heav'n our fongs fhould rife,
And teach the golden harps thy praife.

80. C. M. WATTS'S H.

Pardon.

THY does your face, ye humble fouls,
These mournful colours wear?

What doubts are these that waste your faith,
And nourish your despair?

What tho' your num'rous fins exceed
The ftars that fill the skies,
And aiming at th' eternal throne, ¦..
Like pointed mountains rise :

What though your mighty guilt beyond
The wide creation fwell,
And has its curs'd foundations laid
Low as the deeps of hell.

See here an endless ocean flows
Of never-failing grace;
Behold a dying Savior's veins
The facred flood increafe:

It rifes high, and drowns the hills,

:,,

Has neither thore nor bound: Now, if we fearch to find our fins," f

Our fins can ne'er be found.

Awake, our hearts, adore the grace,
That buries all our faults,

And pard'ning blood, that fwells above
Our follies and our thoughts.

81. C. M. WATTS'S H.

Salvation.

ALVATION! oh, the joyful found the
Tis mufic to our ears b

A fov'reign balm for ev ty wound,

A cordial for fears. TO

our

Bury'd in forrow and in fin,
At hell's dark door we lay:
But we are rais'd by grace divine
To fee the gofpel-day. 1.
Salvation! let the echo flyb
The fpacious earth around;
While all the armies of the sky
Conspire to raise the found.

82. C. M.