The whole triumphant host
Give thanks to God on High: "Hail, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" They ever cry:
Hail, Abrah'm's God and MINE,
I join the heavenly lays;
All might and majesty be thine,
And endless praise!
GOD's furnace doth in Sion stand,
But Sion's God stands by,
As the refiner views his gold
With an observant eye.
His thoughts are high, his love is wise,
His wounds a cure intend;
And though he doth not always smile,
He loves unto the end.
Thy love is constant to its line,
Though clouds oft come between : Oh! could my faith but pierce those clouds, It might be always seen.
But I am weak, and forced to cry,
Take up my soul to thee;
Then, as thou ever art the same,
So shall I also be.
THE Lord abounds with tender love,
And unexampled acts of grace;
His waken'd wrath does slowly move,
His willing mercy flows apace.
God will not always harshly chide,
But with his anger swiftly part:
And loves his punishments to guide,
More by his love than our desert.
As high as heaven its arch extends
Above this little spot of clay:
So much his boundless love transcends,
The small respects that we can pay.
As far as 'tis from east to west,
So far has he our sins removed;
Who with a father's tender breast
Has such as fear him always loved.
THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Doth his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The works of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."
HE is the freeman whom the truth makes free,
And all are slaves beside; there's not a chain,
That hellish foes, confederate for harm,
Can wind around him, but he casts it off
With as much ease as Samson his green withs.
He looks abroad into the varied field
Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy
With a propriety that none can tell,
But who, with filial gratitude inspired,
Can lift to heav'n an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say-"My Father made them all!"
Are they not his by a peculiar right,
And by an emphasis of interest his,
Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,
Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love,
That plann'd, and built, and still upholds, a world?
THY way, O Lord, is in the sea;
Thy paths I cannot trace;
Nor comprehend the mystery
Of thine unbounded grace.
Here, the dark veils of flesh and sense
My captive soul surround;
Mysterious deeps of providence
My wandering thoughts confound.
When I behold thine awful hand
My earthly hopes destroy,
In deep astonishment I stand,
And ask the reason why?
As through a glass I dimly see
The wonders of thy love;
How little do I know of thee,
Or of the joys above!
"Tis but in part I know thy will;
I bless thee for the sight:-
When will thy love the rest reveal,
In glory's clearer light?
With rapture shall I then survey
Thy providence and grace;
And spend an everlasting day
In wonder, love, and praise.
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