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156. C. M. TOPLADY.
Chrift our Advocate.

WAKE. fweet gratitude, and fing
Th' afcended Savior's love:

Sing how he lives to carry on
His people's cause above.

With cries and tears he offer'd up
His humble fuit below;
But with authority he asks,
Enthron'd in glory now.

For all that come to God by him,
Salvation be demands ;
Points to their names upon his breast,
And spreads his wounded hands.
His sweet atoning facrifice

Gives fanction to his claim:
"Father, I will that all my faints
"Be with me where I am:
66 By their falvation recompence
"The forrows I endur'd;
"Juft to the merits of thy Son,
"And faithful to thy word."

Eternal life, at his request,,
To ev'ry faint is giv'n:

Safety on earth, and after death,
The plenitude of heav'n.

Founded on right, thy pray'r avails,
The Father fmiles on thee;
And now thou in thy kingdom art
Dear Lord, remember me.

[Chrift the fecond Adam, fee 43.]

157. L. M. S.

The Balm of Gilead, &c.

THY droops my foul with grief oppreft?


W whence there wild tumults in my breaft

Is there no balm to heal my wound,
No kind Phyfician to be found?

Raife to the cross thy tearful eyes;
Behold the Prince of Glory dies !
He dies, extended on the tree,
Thence sheds a sov'reign balm for me.

Dear Savior, at thy feet I lie,
Here to receive a cure or die :
But grace forbids that painful fear,
Infinite grace, which triumphs here.
Thou wilt extract the poison'd dart,
Bind up and heal the wounded heart ;
With blooming health my face adorn,
And change the gloomy night to morn.

Now give a loofe, my foul, to joy,
Hofannas be thy bleft employ;
Salvation thy eternal theme,

And fwell the fong with Jesus' name.

158. C. M.


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The Brazen Serpent.

BEHOLD the hebrew Prophet raise

The brazen Serpent high!

The wounded feel immediate ease,
The camp forbears to die.
"Look upward in the dying hour,
"And live," the prophet cries;
But Chrift performs a nobler cure,
When faith lifts up her eyes.
High on the crofs the Savior hung,
High in the heav'ns he reigns;
Here finners, by th' old ferpent ftung,
Look, and forget their pains.
When God's own Son is lifted up,
A dying world revives ;

The Jew beholds the glorious hope,
Th' expiring Gentile lives.


159. L. M.


Chrift my Beloved.

ES, my Beloved to my fight

Shews a fweet mixture, red and white:

All human beauties, all divine,

In my Beloved meet and fhine.

White is his foul, from blemish free
Red, with the blood he fhed for me;
The fairest of ten thousand fairs;
A fun amongst ten thousand stars.

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His head the fineft gold excels:
There wisdom in perfection dwells:
And glory like a crown adorns
Those temples once befet with thorns.
Compaffions in his heart are found,
Hard by the fignals of his wound :
His facred fide no niore shall bear
The cruel fcourge, the piercing spear.

His hands are fairer to behold,

Than di'monds fet in rings of gold:
Those heav'nly hands, that on the tree
Were nail'd and torn, and bled for me.

Tho' once he bow'd his feeble knees,
Loaded with fins and agonies;

Now on the throne of his command
His legs like marble pillars fland.

His eyes are majefty and love,
The Eagle temper'd with the dove;
No more fhall trickling forrows roll
Thro' thofe dear windows of his foul.

His mouth that pour'd out long complaints;
Now fimiles, and cheers its fainting faints;
His countenance more graceful is
Than Lebanon, with all its trees.

Completely glorious is my Lord;
By all the hofts of heav'n ador'd:
His worth if all the nations knew,
Sure the whole world would love him too!


160. C. M. WATTS'S H.

Chrift the Bread of Life.

ET us adore th' eternal Word,
'Tis be our fouls has fed;

Thou art our living Stream, O Lord,
And thou th' immortal Bread.

The manna came from lower skies,
But Jefus from above,

Where the fresh fprings of pleasure rise,
And rivers flow with love.

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The Jews, the fathers, dy'd at last,
Who eat that heav'nly bread;
But these provifions which we taste
Can raife us from the dead.

Blefs'd be the Lord, that gives his flesh

To nourish dying men ;.

And often spreads his table fresh,

Left we thould faint again.

Our fouls fhall draw their heav'nly breath,
While Jefus finds fupplies:

Nor fhall our graces fink to death,
For Jefus never dies.

Daily our mortal flesh decays,

But Chrift our life fhall come;

His unrefified power shall raise
Our bodies from the tomb.

[Bridegroom, fee 333.]

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