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Why do we mourn departed friends,

Or shake at death's alarms?
'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends

To call them to his arms.
Are we not tending upward too,

As fast as time can move?
Why should we wish the hours more slow,

To keep us from our love?
Why should we tremble to convey

Their bodies to the tomb?
There the dear flesh of Jesus lay,

And left a long perfume.
The
grave

of all his saints he bless'd,
And soften'd ev'ry bed:
Where should the dying members rest,

But with the dying head?
Thence he arose, ascending high,

And shew'd our feet the way:
Up to the Lord our flesh shall fly

At the great rising day.
Then let the last loud trumpet sound,

And bid our kindred rise;
Awake, ye nations under ground,

Ye saints, ascend the skies.

445. Death.
Ye mourning saints, whose streaming tean

Flow o'er your children dead,

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Say not in transports of despair,

That all your hopes are fled.
While cleaving to that darling dust,

In fond distress ye lie,
Rise, and with joy and rev’rence view

A heavenly parent nigh.
Tho', your young branches torn away,

Like wither'd trunks ye stand,
With fairer verdure shall ye bloom

Touch'd by th' Almighty's hand.
• I'll give the mourner,' saith the Lord, ;

• In my own house a place;
• No names of daughters and of sons

• Could yield so high a gruce.
• Transient and vain is ev'ry hope

• A rising race can give;
In endless honour and delight

My children all shall live.'
We welcome, Lord, those rising tears,

Thro' which thy face we see,
And bless those wounds, which through ou

hearts,
Prepare a way for thee.

446. Death.
Ir vain my fancy strives to paint

The moment after death,
The glories that surround the saints,
When yielding up their breath.

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One gentle sigh their fetters breaks;

We scarce can say, they're gone!' Before the willing spirit takes

Her mansion near the throne.
Faith strives, but all its efforts fail,

To trace her in her flight:
No eye can pierce within the vail

Which hides that world of light. Thus much (and this is all) we know,

They are completely blest; Have done with sin, and care,

and

woe, And with their Saviour rest. On harps of gold they praise his name,

His face they always view;
Then let us follow'rs be of them,

That we may praise him too.

447. Death.
VITAL spark of heav'nly flame,
Quit, oh! quit, this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh! the pain, the bliss

of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
• Sister spirit, come away!'.
What is this absorbs me quite ?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight?
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death

The world recedes, it disappears :
Heaven opens to my eyes, my ears
With sounds serapbic ring.
Lend, lend your wings, I mount, I fly,
O
grave,

where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?

448. Sinner and Saint's Death. What scenes of horror and of dread Await the sinner's dying bed ? Death's terrors all appear in sight, Presages of eternal night. His sins in dreadful order rise, And fill his soul with sad surprise; Mount Sinai's thunder stuns his ears, And not one ray of hope appears. Tormenting pangs distract his breast, Where'er he turns, he finds no rest : Death strikes the blow, he groans and cries, And, in despair and horror, dies. Not so the heir of heav'nly bliss ; His soul is fill'd with conscious peace; A steady faith subdues his fear; He sees the happy Canaan near. His mind is tranquil and serene; No terrors in his looks are seen; His Saviour's smile dispels the gloom, And smooths his passage to the tomb. Lord, make my faith and love sincere, My judgment sound, my conscience clear,

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And when the toils of life are past,
May I be found in peace at last,

449. The rich man and Lazarus.
In what confusion earth appears,
God's dearest children bath'd in tears;
While they, who heaven itself deride.
Riot in luxury and pride.
But patient let my soul attend,
And, ere I censure, view the end
That end, how diff'rent, who can tell ?
The wide extremes of heaven and hell.
See the red flames around him twine,
Who did in gold and purple shine!
Nor can his tongue one drop obtain
T' allay the scorching of his pain.
While round the saint, so poor below,
Full rivers of salvation flow;
On Abram's breast he leans his head,
And banquets on celestial bread.
Jesus, my Saviour, let me share
The meanest of thy servants fare;
So I at last approach to taste
The blessings of thy marriage-feast.

450. The Judgment. DAY of judgment, day of wonders !

Hark! the trumpet's awful sound,

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