English Congregational Hymns in the Eighteenth Century

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University Press of Kentucky, 1982 - 181 páginas

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Página 98 - HOW sweet the name of Jesus sounds In a believer's ear ! It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, And drives away his fear. 2 It makes the wounded spirit whole, And calms the troubled breast ; Tis manna to the hungry soul, And to the weary rest.
Página 126 - Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood Shall never lose its power, Till all the ransomed church of God Be saved, to sin no more. 4 E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream Thy flowing wounds supply, Redeeming love has been my theme, And shall be till I die.
Página 42 - THERE is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign ; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain. 2 There everlasting spring abides, And never withering flowers ; Death, like a narrow sea, divides This heavenly land from ours.
Página 136 - THE billows swell, the winds are high, Clouds overcast my wint'ry sky ; Out of the depths to thee I call, My fears are great, my strength is small. 2 O LORD, the pilot's part perform, And guide and guard me through the storm ; Defend me from each threat'ning ill, Control the waves, say,
Página 114 - See, the streams of living waters, Springing from eternal Love, Well supply thy sons and daughters, And all fear of want remove : Who can faint, while such a river Ever flows their thirst to assuage ? Grace, which, like the Lord the Giver, Never fails from age to age.
Página 115 - Saviour, if of Zion's city I, through grace, a member am; Let the world deride or pity, I will glory in thy name : Fading is the worldling's pleasure, All his boasted pomp and show ; Solid joys and lasting treasure, None but Zion's children know.
Página 72 - JESUS, Lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high : Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, Till the storm of life be past ; Safe into the haven guide ; O receive my soul at last...
Página 159 - MEN of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay ye low ? Wherefore weave with toil and care The rich robes your tyrants wear...
Página 45 - Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast, Save in the death of Christ, my God ; All the vain things that charm me most, I sacrifice them to His blood.
Página 72 - Other refuge have I none; Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; Leave, ah, leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me. All my trust on Thee is stayed, All my help from Thee I bring; Cover my defenceless head With the shadow of Thy wing.

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