Lord, make me know thy cov'nant well, 3 Remember all thy grace, 4 The Lord is just and kind; 5 For his own goodness" fake,. He faves my foul from shame; CLVIII. Confeffion and Pardon. Pfalm. xxxii. Bleffed fouls are they, Ο Whofe fins are cover'd o'er ! Divinely bleft, to whom the Lord 2 They mourn their follies paft, 3 While I conceal'd my guilt, 'Till I confefs'd my fins to thee, And ready pardon found. 4 Let finners feek the Lord, Let faints keep near the throne; Our help in times of deep diftrefs, Is in the Lord alone. CLIX. Let all Nations praise the 'F Lord. ROM all that dwell below the skies, Let the Redeemer's name be fung, 2 Eternal are thy mercies, Lord ; CLX. "W The Qualifications of a HO shall afcend thy heav'nly place, The man that trusts in Jesus now, And humbly walks with God below. 2 Whofe hands are pure, whofe heart is clean Whofe lips ftill speak the thing they mean No No flanders dwell upon his tongue : (3 Scarce will he trust an ill report, Nor vent it to his neighbour's hurt: Sinners of ftate he can despise But faints are honour'd in his eyes.) (4 Firm to his word he ever ftood, 5 He never deals in bribing gold, And mourns that justice should be fold; 6 He loves his enemies, and prays And doth to all men ftill the fame, 7 Yet, when his holieft works are done, CLXI. Courage in Death, and Hope of the Refurrection. HE Lord Jehovah is my song, T His arm is my almighty prop: Be glad, my heart, rejoice my tongue, 2 Tho' in the duft I lay my head, Nor lofe thy children in the grave. 3 My flefh fhall thy firft call obey, 4 The ftreams of endlefs pleasure flow: (Which we but tafted here below) Spread heav'nly joys thro' all the place. CLXII. Support and Support and Counsel from God, without Merit. Pfal. xvi. 1, 8. 'S AVE me, O Lord, from ev'ry foe, Tho' Tho' all the good that I can do, t 2 Yet if my God prolong my breath, 3 Let heathens to their idols haste, But my delightful lot is caft, Where the true God is known. 4 His hand provides my conftant food Much am I pleas'd with prefent good, 6 My foul would all her thoughts approve, To his all feeing eye; Nor death nor hell my hope fhall move, CLXIII. |