145. C. M. WATTS'S H.

Another.

HOSANNA to the Prince of light,

That cloath'd bimself in clay,

Enter'd the iron gates of death,
And tore the bars away.

Death is no more the king of dread,
Since our Immanuel rofe;
He took the tyrant's fting away,
And fpoil'd our bellifh foes.

See how the Conqu'ror mounts aloft,
And to bis Father flies,
With fears of honor in his flesḥ,
And triumph in his eyes.

There our exalted Savior reigns,
And scatters bleffings down;
Our Jefus fills the middle feat
Of the celeftial throne.

Raife your devotion, mortal tongues,
To reach his blefs'd abode;
Sweet be the accents of your fongs
To our incarnate God.

Bright angels, ftrike your loudeft ftrings,
Your sweeteft voices raife;

Let heav'n and all created things
Sound our Immanuel's praile.

146: L. M.

Medley.

Chrift Lives no more to Die.

E lives, he lives, no more to die!

He lives, the Lord, enthron'd on high

He lives, triumphant o'er the grave!
He lives, eternally to fave!

He lives, to ftill his people's fears!
He lives, to wipe away their tears !
He lives, to calm their troubl'd heart!
He lives, all bleffings to impart !
He lives, all glory to his name!
He lives, unchangeably the fame !
He lives, their manfions to prepare !
He lives, to bring them fafely there!

147. L. M.

WESLEY'S Col. altered.

Chrift's Afcenfion.

THE Lord is rifen from the dead ;
The Savior is gone up on high

The hofts of hell are captive led;
His foes beneath his footftool lie,

The mighty King, in folemn state,
Afcends towards the realms of day:
"Lift up your head, each heav'nly gate!
"Ye everlasting doors, give way!
"Unfold, ye gates, the fcenes of light,
"To him who flew the monster Sin
"He claims thofe mansions as his right;
"Receive the King of glory in."

"Who is this King of glory, who?" "The Lord, that all his foes o'ercame; "Who fin, and death, and hell o'erthrew, "And Jefus is the conqu'ror's name." The mighty King, in folemn ftate, Afcends towards the realms of day: "Lift up your head, each heav'nly gate! "Ye everlafting doors, give way!" "Who is this King of glory, who? "Jefus of boundlefs pow'r poffeft; "The King of faints and angels too, "God over all, for ever bleft."

148. S. M. WATTS'S H. The Paffion and Exaltation of Chrift

YOME, all harmonious tongues,
Your nobleft mufic bring,

'Tis Chrift the everlasting God,

And Chrift the Man, we fing.

Tell how he took our flesh,
To take away our guilt;

Sing the dear drops of facred blood

That hellish monfters fpilt.

Alas! the cruel fpear

Went deep into his fide,

And the rich flood of purple gore
Their murd'rous weapons dy'd.

The waves of fwelling grief
Did o'er his bofom roll,

And mountains of almighty wrath
Lay heavy on his foul.

Down to the thades of death
He bow'd his awful head;
Yet he arofe to live and reign,
When death itself is dead.
No more the bloody fpear,
The cross and nails no more;
For hell itself thakes at his name,
And all the heav'n's adore.

There his full glories fhine
With uncreated rays,

To blefs his faints and angels eyes

Thro' everlasting days.

149.

L. M.

WATTS'S H

The Humiliation and Exaltation of Christ.

THAT equal honors fhall we bring
To thee, O Lord, our God the Lamb;

W

Since all the notes that angels fing,

Are far inferior to thy name?

Worthy is he that once was flain,

The Prince of Peace, that groan'd and dy'd; Worthy to rife, and live, and reign

At his Almighty Father's fide.

Pow'r and dominion are his due,

Who ftood condemn'd at Pilate's bar:

Wisdom belongs to Jefus too,

Tho' he was charg'd with madness here.

All riches are his native right,

Yet he fuftain'd amazing lofs:

To him afcribe eternal might,

Who left his weakness on the crofs. !

Honor immortal must be paid,

Inftead of fcandal and of fcorn: While glory fhines around his head, And a bright crown, without a thorn. Bleffings for ever on the Lamb,

Who bore our fins, and curfe, and pain : Let angels found his facred hame, And ev'ry creature fay, Amen!

150. C. M.

HILL'S Col.

Jefus feen of Angels.

BEYOND the glittring Harry (kies,

Far as th' eternal hills,

There, in the boundless worlds of light,
Our dear Redeemer dwells.

Immortal angels ftrong and fair,
In countless armies fhine $
At his right hand with golden harps
They offer fongs divine.

"Hail, Prince!" they cry," for ever hail! "Whofe unexampled love

"Mov'd thee to quit these glorious realms, "And royalties above."'

Through all his travels here below,
They did his fteps attend;

Oft gaz'd, and wonder'd where at laft
The scene of love would end.

They faw his heart transfix'd with wounds,

His crimson fweat and gore:

They faw him break the bars of death,
Which none e'er broke before, *