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We feel a strong immortal hope,
Beneath their mountain load;
Within the arms of God.
Which death has snatched away;
C. Wesley. 1762. a. 593 1 Hark! a voice divides the sky;
Happy are the faithful dead,
They from all their toils are freed.
Blest, unutterably blest;
Jesus is their endless Rest.
Where their Head had gone before;
Grace hath opened mercy's door.
Here they knew their sins forgiven;
Hallowed and made meet for heaven.
Hastens homeward to return,
C. Wesley. 1742.
Pay we, gracious God, to Thee ;
Givest us the victory!
Thou hast glorified Thy Son;
He for us the fight hath won.
Lightened of his fleshly load:
He is gathered into God!
All his warfare now is o'er ;
Grief and suffering are no more.
Ended is the glorious strife;
C. Wesley. 1742. 595 Death of a Child.
7s. 1 WHEREFORE should I make my moan,
Now the darling child is dead?
He to paradise is filed:
Never shall return to me.
God recalls the precious loan;
bosom to His own:
Happy in His will rest.
3 Faith cries out. It is the Lord,
Let Him do as seems Him good!
Take the gift awhile bestowed:
C. Wesley. 1749. 596 Guter Hirt, Du hast gestillet. 8,7 1 GENTLE Shepherd, Thou hast stilled
Now Thy little lamb's long weeping:
In its narrow bed 'tis sleeping!
Heaves that little bosom more.
Lord, Thou wouldst no longer leave it:
Dost Thou now in joy receive it.
Now it dwells with Thee in light.
Where it lives may soon be living,
That its heavenly food are giving.
Miss Winkworth. 1858.
S. M. 1 And must this body die,
This mortal fraine decay?
2 Corruption, earth, and worms,
Shall but refine this flesh,
To put it on afresh.
And often from the skies
Till He shall bid it rise.
Shall these vile bodies shine,
Look heavenly and divine.
To Jesus' dying Love:
Of these our humble songs,
C. M. 1 Through sorrow's night and danger's path,
Amid the deepening gloom,
Are marching to the tomb.
And all our powers decay,
Shall sleep the years away. 3 Our labors done, securely laid
In this our last retreat,
The storms of life shall beat.
4 Yet not thus thus lifeless, thus inane,
The vital spark shall lie,
To seek its kindred sky.
Our Father's care shall keep,
The long and dreary sleep.
Shall shed its mildest rays,
Henry Kirke White. 1806.
H. M. 1 My life's a shade, my days
Apace to death decline :
My dust again, even mine.
My Savior see.
My bones till that sweet day;
And leave my bed of clay.
My Savior see.
By thee to heaven I'll
Me from the flames below.
My Savior see. Samuel Crossman. 1664. a.