379. C. M. WATTS'S H.

Fifth of November.

ION, rejoice, and Judah, fing,
The Lord affumes his throne!
Let Britain own the heav'nly King,
And make his glories known.

His pow'r the whole creation rules,
And, on the ftarry skies,
Sits smiling at the weak designs,
His envious foes devise.

His fcorn derides their feeble rage,
And, with an awful frown,
Flings vaft confufion on their plots,
And shakes their Babel down.

Their dark defigns were all reveal'd,
Their treasons all betray'd;
Praise to the Lord, that broke the fnare
Their cursed hands had laid.

In vain the busy sons of hell
Still new rebellions try ;'

Their fouls fhall pine with envious rage,
And vex away, and die.

Almighty grace defends our land

From their malicious pow'r ; Let Britain, with united fongs, Almighty grace adore.

380. 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 ftroke,
"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

I

381. Sevens.

FAWCETT.

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.

JE

TOPLADY'S C.

For a Public Faft.

ESUS, fin-atoning Lamb,
Thy gracious pity show;
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 sleeping 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..

383.

8.

MORTON'S Col.

For a Time of Dearth.

the vine

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' comfortlefs 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.