It can bring with it nothing, Beneath the spreading heavens Will give His children bread. Though vine nor fig-tree either Their wonted fruit should bear; Though all the field should wither, Nor flock nor herd be there; Yet God the same abiding, His praise shall tune my voice; For, while in Him confiding, I cannot but rejoice. How sweet the name of Jesus sounds In a believer's ear! It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, It makes the wounded spirit whole, And to the weary, rest. Dear name! the rock on which I build ! My shield and hiding-place; My never-failing treasury, filled With boundless stores of grace. Jesus! my shepherd, husband, friend, Weak is the effort of my heart, And cold my warmest thought; But when I see Thee as thou art, I'll praise Thee as I ought. BLESSED ARE THE DEAD THAT DIE IN THE LORD." IN vain our fancy strives to paint The glories that surround the saint, One gentle sigh his fetters breaks; Faith strives, but all its efforts fail, Thus much (and this is all) we know, Have done with sin, and care, and woe, |