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285. 8-8-8-4.

Mt God, my Father, while I stray
Far from my home, on life's rough way,

0 teach me from my heart to say,

Thy will be done!

Though dark my path and sad my lot,
Let me be still and murmur not;
Or breathe the prayer dirinely taught,
Thy will be done!

What, though in lonely grief I sigh
For friends beloved, no longer nigh,
Submissive still would I reply,
Thy will be done!

Though Thou hast call'd me to resign
What most I prized, it ne'er was mine,

1 have but yielded what was Thine;

Thy will be done!

Let but my fainting heart be blest,
With Thy sweet Spirit for its guest,
My God, to Thee I leave the rest;
Thy will be done!

Renew my will from day to day;
Blend it with Thine; and take away
All that now makes it hard to say,
Thy will be done! Amen.

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God moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill He treasures up His bright designs,

And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;

The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;

Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan His work in vain;

God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain. Amen.

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Fab from my heavenly home,
Par from my Father's breast;
Fainting, I cry "Blest Spirit! come
And speed me to my rest."

Upon the willows long
My harp has silent hung;
How should I sing a cheerful song,
Till Thou inspire my tongue?

My spirit homeward turns,
And fain would thither flee;
My heart, O Zion, droops and yearns,
When I remember thee.

To thee, to thee, I press,
A dark and toilsome road;
When shall I pass the wilderness,
And reach the saint's abode?

God of my life be near;
On Thee my hopes I cast;
O guide me through the desert here,

And bring me home at last. Amen.

288. 8-5-8-3.

Aet thou weary, art thou languid,
Art thou sore distressed?

Come to me, says One, and coming,
Be at rest.

Has He marks to lead me to Him,

If He be my guide? In His hands and feet are wound-prints, And His side.

Is there diadem, as monarch,

That His brow adorns?

Yes, a crown, in very surety,

But of thorns.

If I ask Him to receive me,
Will He say me, nay?
Not till earth, and not till heaven
Pass away.

If I find Him, if I follow,

What His wages here? Many a sorrow, many a labour,

Many a tear.

Finding, following, ever keeping,

Is He sure to bless?
Martyrs, Prophets, and Apostles,
Answer, yes.

Glory be to Thee, the Father,

And to Thee, the Son, And to Thee, the Holy Spirit,

Ever One. Amen.

289. s M.

O Whebe shall rest be found,

Best for the weary soul? 'Twere vain the ocean's depths to sound,

Or pierce to either pole.

The world can never give
The bliss for which we sigh;

'Tis not the whole of life to live,
Nor all of death to die.

Beyond this vale of tears

There is a life above; Unmeasured by the flight of years,

And all that life is love.

There is a death, whose pang
Outlasts the fleeting breath;

O what eternal horrors hang
Around "the second death."

Lord God of truth and grace,
Teach us that death to shun;

Lest we be banish'd from Thy face,
And evermore undone.

Here would we end our quest,

Alone are found in Thee,
The life of perfect love, the rest

Of immortality. Amen.

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