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144

HYMNS

FOR THE SICK ROOM.

CONSOLATIONS IN SICKNESS.

WHEN languor and disease invade
This trembling house of clay,
"Tis sweet to look beyond my pains,
And long to fly away.

Sweet to look inward, and attend

The whispers of his love;
Sweet to look upward, to the place
Where Jesus pleads above.

Sweet to look back, and see my name
In life's fair book set down;
Sweet to look forward, and behold
Eternal joys my own.

Sweet to reflect how grace divine

My sins on Jesus laid;

Sweet to remember that his blood
My debt of suffering paid.
Sweet in his righteousness to stand,
Which saves from second death;
Sweet to experience, day by day,
His Spirit's quickening breath.
Sweet on his faithfulness to rest,
Whose love can never end;
Sweet on his covenant of grace,
For all things to depend.

Sweet in the confidence of faith,
To trust his firm decrees;
Sweet to lie passive in his hands,
And know no will but his.

If such the sweetness of the streams,
What must the fountain be;
Where saints and angels draw their bliss,
Immediately from thee!

CHRISTIANS HAVE ALL IN CHRIST.

JESUS, lover of my soul,

Let me to thy bosom fly,

While the raging billows roll,
While the tempest still is high.

Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life is past;
Safe into the haven guide;

O! receive my soul at last.

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 staid,

All my help from thee I bring; Cover my defenceless head,

With the shadow of thy wing.

Thou, O Christ, art all I want;
All in all in thee I find;

Raise the fallen, cheer the faint,
Heal the sick and lead the blind.
Just and holy is thy name,

I am all unrighteousness; Vile and full of sin I am,

Thou art full of truth and grace.

Plenteous grace with thee is found,
Grace to pardon all my sin;
Let the healing streams abound,
Make and keep me pure within.

Thou of life the fountain art,
Freely let me take of thee;
Spring thou up within my heart,
Rise to all eternity.

HUMAN FRAILTY.

LORD, what a feeble piece
Is this our mortal frame!
Our life, how poor a trifle 'tis,
That scarce deserves the name!

Alas, the brittle clay

That built our body first!

And every month, and every day, 'Tis mouldering back to dust.

Our moments fly apace,

Our feeble powers decay; Swift as a flood our hasty days

Are sweeping us away.

Yet, if our days must fly,

We'll keep their end in sight, We'll spend them all in wisdom's way, And let them speed their flight.

They'll waft us sooner o'er

This life's tempestuous sea;

Soon shall we reach the peaceful shore

Of blest eternity.

PRAYER IN AFFLICTION.

GOD of my life, to thee I call,
Afflicted, at thy feet I fall;

O! while the swelling floods prevail,
Leave not my trembling heart to fail.

Friend of the friendless and the faint,
Where shall I lodge my deep complaint?
Where but with thee, whose open door
Invites the helpless and the poor?
Did ever mourner plead with thee,
And thou refuse the humble plea?
Does not the word still fixed remain,
That none shall seek thy face in vain ?
That were a grief I could not bear,
Didst thou not hear and answer prayer:
The promise of a faithful God,
Supports me under every load.

Fair is the lot that 's cast for me,
I have an Advocate with thee;
They whom the world caresses most,
Have no such privilege to boast.
Poor though I am, despised, forgot,
Yet God, my God, forgets me not;
That man is safe, and must succeed,
For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead.

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