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Prayer is the Christian's vital breath.

The Christian's native air; His watchword at the gates of death;

He enters Heaven with prayer.

The saints, in prayer, appear as one
In word, and deed, and mind,

While with the Father and the Son
Sweet fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is made by man alone,

The Holy Spirit pleads;
And Jesus, on th' eternal throne,

For sinners intercedes.

O Thou, by whom we come to God!

The Life, the Truth, the Way! The path of prayer Thyself hast trod:

Lord! teach us how to pray.

J. Montgomery

Ii

PSALM CXLVIII

Come, 0! come, with sacred lays,
Let us sound th' Almighty's praise;
Hither, bring in true consent,
Heart, and voice, and instrument.
Let the orpharion sweet
With the harp and viol meet:

L

To your voices tune the lute:
Let not tongue nor string be mute:
Nor a creature dumb be found,
That hath either voice or sound.

Let such things as do not live,
In still music praises give;
Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep
On the earth, or in the deep;
Loud aloft your voices strain,
Beasts and monsters of the main;
Birds, your warbling treble sing;
Clouds, your peals of thunder ring;
Sun and Moon exalted higher,
And you Stars, augment the quire.

Come, ye sons of human race,
In this chorus take your place,
And amid this mortal throng,
Be ye masters of the song.
Angels and celestial powers,
Be the noblest tenor yours.
Let, in praise of God, the sound
Run a never-ending round,
That our holy hymn may be
Everlasting, as is He.

From the earth's vast hollow womb
Music's deepest bass shall come,
Sea and floods from shore to shore
Shall the counter-tenor roar.
To this concert, when we sing,
Whistling winds, your descant bring:
Which may bear the sound above
Where the orb of fire doth move;
And so climb from sphere to sphere,
Till our song th' Almighty hear.

So shall He from Heaven's high tower
On the earth His blessing shower;
All this huge wide orb we see
Shall one choir, one temple be;
There our voices we will rear
Till we fill it everywhere:
And enforce the fiends that dwell
In the air, to sink to hell.
Then, 0 ! come, with sacred lays,
Let us sound th' Almighty's praise.

G. Wither

III

HYMN OF PRAISE

Holy, holy, holy, Lord,

God of Hosts! When heaven and earth Out of darkness, at Thy Word,

Issued into glorious birth,
All Thy works before Thee stood,
And Thine eye beheld them good,
While they sang with one accord,

Holy, holy, holy, Lord!

Holy, holy, holy! Thee

One Jehovah evermore Father, Son, and Spirit, we,

Dust and ashes, would adore:

Lightly by the world esteem'd,
From that world by Thee redeem'd,
Sing we here, with glad accord,
Holy, holy, holy, Lord!

Holy, holy, holy! all

Heaven's triumphant choir shall sing, When the ransom'd nations fall

At the footstool of their King: Then shall saints and seraphim, Hearts and voices, swell one hymn, Round the throne with full accord,

Holy, holy, holy, Lord!

J. Montgomery

IV

THE GOODNESS OF GOD

Yes, God is good: in earth and sky,
From ocean-depths and spreading wood,

Ten thousand voices seem to cry,

"God made us all, and God is good."

The sun that keeps his trackless way,
And downward pours his golden flood,

Night's sparkling hosts, all seem to say,
In accents clear, that God is good.

The merry birds prolong the strain,
Their song with every spring renew'd;

And balmy air, and falling rain,
Each softly whisper, "God is good."

I hear it in the rushing breeze;

The hills that have for ages stood, The echoing sky, and roaring seas,

All swell the chorus, "God is good."

Yes, God is good, all Nature says,

By God's own hand with speech endued;

And man, in louder notes of praise,

Should sing for joy that "God is good."

For all Thy gifts we bless Thee, Lord,
But chiefly for our heavenly food,

Thy pardoning grace, Thy quick'ning word;
These prompt our song that " God is good."

y. H. Gurney

THE GOODNESS OF PROVIDENCE

The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noon-day walks He shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountains pant,
To fertile vales, and dewy meads,
My weary wandering steps He leads,

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