2 For whom, for whom, my heart, 3 4 For love of us He bled, And all in torture died; 'Twas Love that bowed His fainting head, Drawn by such cords as these, T How does that visage languish, Which once was bright as morn! Mine, mine was the transgression, 3 Lo, here I fall, my Saviour! 4 What language shall I borrow dor e anzuty Maker ured For man the creature's sin! 4 Thus might I hide my blushing face, 5 But drops of grief can ne'er repay 101 [Watts. 1709. 8.7. 184 EASTER EVE. 8,7,7. 1 ALL is o'er, the pain, the sorrow, Of the prey he grasps to-night; 3 Close and still the cell that holds Him, 4 We this night with plaintive voicing From to-morrow's harps shall flow: Death and hell at length are slain, Christ hath triumphed, Christ doth reign. John Moultrie. 1858. 4 Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were a tribute far too small; Love so amazing, so divine, 4 Demands my soul, my life, my all. And all in torture died; 'Twas Love that bowed His fainting head, Drawn by such cords as these, How does that visage languish, Mine, mine was the transgression, 3 Lo, here I fall, my Saviour! 4 What language shall I borrow би макет атей For man the creature's sin! 4 Thus might I hide my blushing face, Dissolve my heart in thankfulness, S. Thy bitter Death shall be My guide at last into death's awful shade. 184 Miss Winkworth. 1855. Te Salamon Franck 1716 EASTER EVE. 8,7,7. 1 ALL is o'er, the pain, the sorrow, 3 Close and still the cell that holds Him, 4 We this night with plaintive voicing From to-morrow's harps shall flow: Christ hath triumphed, Christ doth reign. John Moultrie. 1858. 4 Were the whole realm of nature mine, My soul doth start, to weep So sad a wonder, that Thou, Saviour, diest! 2 Thy bitter anguish o'er, Thee, Life of life-Thee, Lord of all creation! Must serve Thee for a grave, Who wast Thyself the Rock of our salvation! 3 0 Prince of Life! I know That when I too lie low, Thou wilt at last my soul from death awaken : From the grave's awful brink; The heart that trusts in Thee shall ne'er be shaken. 4 To me the darksome tomb Is but a narrow room, Where I may rest in peace, from sorrow free. To cry in that dark hour, O Death! O Grave! where is your victory? 5 The grave can naught destroy; And even the body triumphs o'er decay: In robes of dazzling light, This flesh shall burst the grave at that Last Day. 6 My Jesus, day by day, Help me to watch and pray, Beside the tomb where in my heart Thou'rt laid. |