Crort's 148rh Psalm. 6, 6, 6, 6, 4, 4, 4, 4. Dr. Croft. Died, 1727.

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What though the spicy breezes

Blow soft c'er Java's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,

And only man is vile;
In vain with lavish kindness

The gifts of God are strown;
The heathen, in his blindness,

Bows down to wood and stone ! Can we, whose souls are lighted

With wisdom from on high, Can we to men benighted

The lamp of life deny ? Salvation! oh, salvation !

The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation

Has learn’d Messiah's Name.

Waft, waft, ye winds, His story,

And you, ye waters, roll, Till like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole ; Till o'er our ransom'd nature

The Lamb for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator,

In bliss returns to reign !

O
SPIRIT of the living God,

In all the fulness of Thy grace,
Where'er the foot of man hath trod,

Descend on our apostate race.
Give tongues of fire and hearts of love,

To preach the reconciling Word ;
Give power and unction from above,

Whene'er the joyful sound is heard.
Be darkness, at Thy coming, light;

Confusion, order in Thy path;
Souls without strength inspire with might;

Bid mercy triumph over wrath.
Baptize the nations far and nigh,

The triumphs of the cross record;
The name of Jesus glorify,
Till
every

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