We feel a strong immortal hope,
Which bears our mournful spirits up

Beneath their mountain load;
Redeemed from death, and grief, and pain,
We soon shall find our friend again

Within the arms of God.
3 Pass a few fleeting moments more,
And death the blessing shall restore

Which death has snatched away;
For us Thou wilt the summons send,
And give us back our parted friend,
In that eternal day.

C. Wesley. 1762. a. 593 1 Hark! a voice divides the sky;

Happy are the faithful dead,
In the Lord who sweetly die;

They from all their toils are freed.
2 Them the Spirit hath declared

Blest, unutterably blest;
Jesus is their great Reward,

Jesus is their endless Rest.
3 Followed by their works, they go

Where their Head had gone before;
Reconciled by grace below,

Grace hath opened mercy's door.
4 Justified through faith alone,

Here they knew their sins forgiven;
Here they laid their burden down,

Hallowed and made meet for heaven.
5 When from flesh the spirit freed

Hastens homeward to return,
Mortals cry, “A man is dead!"
Angels sing, “A child is born !"

C. Wesley. 1742.

594
1 BLESSING, honor, thanks, and praise,

Pay we, gracious God, to Thee ;
Thou, in Thine abundant grace,

Givest us the victory!
2 True and faithful to Thy word,

Thou hast glorified Thy Son;
Jesus Christ, our dying Lord,

He for us the fight hath won.
3 Lo, the prisoner is released,

Lightened of his fleshly load:
Where the weary are at rest,

He is gathered into God!
4 Lo, the pain of life is past,

All his warfare now is o'er ;
Death and hell behind are cast,

Grief and suffering are no more.
5 Yes, the Christian's course is run,

Ended is the glorious strife;
Fought the fight, the work is done,
Death is swallowed up of Life!

C. Wesley. 1742. 595 Death of a Child.

7s. 1 WHEREFORE should I make my moan,

Now the darling child is dead?
He to early rest is gone,

He to paradise is filed:
I shall go to him, but he

Never shall return to me.
2 God forbids his longer stay;

God recalls the precious loan;
God hath taken him away
From my

bosom to His own:
Surely what He wills is best;

Happy in His will rest.

3 Faith cries out. It is the Lord,

Let Him do as seems Him good!
Be Thy holy Name adored;

Take the gift awhile bestowed:
Take the child no longer mine;
Thine he is, forever Thine.

C. Wesley. 1749. 596 Guter Hirt, Du hast gestillet. 8,7 1 GENTLE Shepherd, Thou hast stilled

Now Thy little lamb's long weeping:
Ah how peaceful, pale, and mild,

In its narrow bed 'tis sleeping!
And no sigh of anguish sore

Heaves that little bosom more.
2 In this world of care and pain,

Lord, Thou wouldst no longer leave it:
To the sunny heavenly plain

Dost Thou now in joy receive it.
Clothed in robes of spotless white,

Now it dwells with Thee in light.
3 Ah, Lord Jesus, grant that we

Where it lives may soon be living,
And the lovely pastures see

That its heavenly food are giving.
Then the gain of death we'll prove,
Though Thou take what most we love.

Miss Winkworth. 1858.
Tr. Meinhold.

RESURRECTION. 5999

S. M. 1 And must this body die,

This mortal fraine decay?
And must these active limbs of mine
Lie mouldering in the clay?

2 Corruption, earth, and worms,

Shall but refine this flesh,
Till my triumphant spirit comes

To put it on afresh.
3 God my Redeemer lives,

And often from the skies
Looks down and watches all my dust,

Till He shall bid it rise.
4 Arrayed in glorious grace

Shall these vile bodies shine,
And every shape, and every face,

Look heavenly and divine.
5 These lively hopes we owe

To Jesus' dying Love:
We would adore His grace below,
And sing His power

above.
6 Dear Lord, accept the praise

Of these our humble songs,
Till tunes of nobler sound we raise
With our immortal tongues.

Watts. 1709.

598

C. M. 1 Through sorrow's night and danger's path,

Amid the deepening gloom,
We soldiers of an injured King

Are marching to the tomb.
2 There, when the turmoil is no more,

And all our powers decay,
Our cold remains in solitude

Shall sleep the years away. 3 Our labors done, securely laid

In this our last retreat,
Unheeded o'er our silent dust

The storms of life shall beat.

4 Yet not thus thus lifeless, thus inane,

The vital spark shall lie,
For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise

To seek its kindred sky.
5 These ashes too, this little dust,

Our Father's care shall keep,
Till the last angel rise, and break

The long and dreary sleep.
6 Then love's soft dew o’er every eye

Shall shed its mildest rays,
And the long silent dust shall burst
With shouts of endless praise.

Henry Kirke White. 1806.

599

H. M. 1 My life's a shade, my days