380.7 C. M.

WATTS'S H.

"I

The Ruin of Antichrift. !

Lift my banner (faith the Lord)
"Where Antichrift has ftood;

"The city of my gospel-foes-
"Shall be a field of blood.

"My heart hath study'd just revenge,
"And now the day appears;
"The day of my redeem'd is come,
"To wipe away their tears.

“Quite weary is my patience grown,
"And bids my fury go:

"Swift as the light'ning it fhall move, 66 And be as fatal too.

"I call for helpers, but in vain : "Then has my gospel none?

Well, mine own arm has might enough
"To crush my foes alone.

Slaughter, and my devouring fword,
"Shall walk the streets around,

"Babel fhall reel beneath my stroke,
"And ftagger to the ground.

Thy honors, O victorious King!
Thine own right hand fhall raife,
While we thy awful vengeance fing,
And our Deliv'rer praile.

W

381.

Sevens.

FAWCETT.

I

Hitherto the Lord hath helped us.
A Birth-Day Hymn.

My Ebenezer raise

To my kind Redeemer's praise; With a grateful heart I own, Hitherto thy help I've known.

What may

be my

future lot,

Well I know concerns me not;

This fhall fet my heart at reft,
What thy will ordains is beft.

I my all to thee refign:
Father, let thy will be mine;
May but all thy dealings prove
Fruits of thy paternal love.

Guard me, Savior, by thy pow'r,
Guard me in the trying hour:
Let thy unremitted care
Save me from the lurking fnare.

Let my few remaining days
Be directed to thy praise;
So the laft, the clofing scene,
Shall be tranquil and ferene.

To thy will I leave the reft,
Grant me but this one request,
Both in life and death to prove
Tokens of thy fpecial love.

382. Clark's T.

JESUS

TOPLADY'S C.

For a Public Faft.

ESUS, fin-atoning Lamb,
Thy gracious pity fhow;
All the kindness of thy name

Let favor'd Britain know;
Utter not the awful word,
And do not, do not vengeance take:
Spare our guilty nation, Lord,
For thy own mercy's fake.

Worst of all th' apoftate race,
Yet liften to our cry:
Moft unworthy of thy grace,
Without thy grace we die;
Tophet is our juft reward,

Yet fnatch us from the burning lake;
Spare our guilty nation, Lord,
For thy own mercy's fake.

Though thy judgments are abroad, Let us thy goodness prove: Save us, O moft gracious God, In honor of thy love! Though thy righteous hand is ftirr'd, Arifing flow the earth to fhake; Spare our guilty nation, Lord, For thy own mercy's fake.

O alarm the fleeping crowd,

And fill their fouls with dread?

Then avert the low'ring cloud
Impending o'er our head:

Turn afide the hoftile fword, And us to thy protection take: Spare our guilty nation, Lord, For thy own mercy's fake.

A

383.

8.

MORTON'S Col.

For a Time of Dearth.

LTHO' the vine its fruit deny,
Altho' the olive yield no oil,
The with'ring fig-tree droop and die,
The fields deceive the tiller's toil;
Altho' the ftall no herd afford,

And perish all the bleating race,
Ye ranfom'd, triumph in the Lord;
The God of your falvation praise.
Tho' comfortless the foul remain,
And not a gleam of light appear;
Tho' joy be fought, and fought in vain,
And tho' defpair itself be near;
Altho' affurance all be loft,

And blooming hopes cut off they fee, Lord, teach thy people ftill to trust, And may they ftill rely on thee.

May faints, believing against hope,
An intereft in the Savior claim:
Jefus fhall lift believers up;
Salvation is in Jefus' name.
'Tis he fhall bring deliv'rance nigh,
And then dejected faints fhall find,
When he fhall lift their comforts high,
His arm how firong, his beart how kind.

384. L. M. RIPPON'S Sel.

W

Deliverance.

WHAT hath God wrought! might Ifrael fay,
When Jordan roll'd its tide away,

And gave a paffage to their bands,

Safely to march across its fands.

What hath God wrought! might well be faid, When Jefus, rifing from the dead,

Scatter'd the fhades of pagan night,

And bless'd the nations with his light.

What hath God wrought! let Britons fee,
Freed from the plagues of popery,
Its tenfold night, its iron chains,
Its galling yoke, its cruel pains.

What hath God wrought! in glad furprise,
Shall found thro' all the earth and skies,
When, like a mill-ftone in the main,
Proud Rome fhall fink, nor rise again.

What hath God wrought! O blissful theme!
Are we redeem'd, and call'd by him?
Shall we be led the defert thro'-

And safe arrive at glory too?

The news will ev'ry harp employ,
Fill ev'ry tongue with rapt'rous joy,
When we fhall join the heav'nly throng
To fwell the triumph and the fong!