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1 VOUR harps, ye trembling saints,

1 Down from the willows take; Loud to the praise of love divine,

Bid every string awake. Though in a foreign land,

We are not far from home, And nearer to our house above

We every moment come. 2 Fastened within the veil,

Hope be your anchor strong, His loving Spirit the sweet gale

That wafts you smooth along; Or should the surges rise,

And peace delay to come, Blest is the sorrow, kind the storm,

That drives us nearer home.

3 Soon shall our doubts and fears

Subside at His control; His loving-kindness shall break through

The midnight of the soul:
Still on His plighted love

At all events rely;
The very hidings of His face

Shall train thee up to joy. 4 Tarry His leisure then,

Although He seem to stay;
A moment's intercourse with Him

Thy grief will overpay.
Blest is the man, O God,

That stays himself on Thee; Who waits for Thy salvation, Lord, Shall Thy salvation see.

Augustus M. Toplady, 1772

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Who

in the strength of

Je - sus trusts Is

more than con-quer - or.

A - men.

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That having all things done,

And all your conflicts past,
Ye may o'ercome through Christ alone,

And stand entire at last.

1 SOLDIERS of Christ, arise,

And put your armor on,
Strong in the strength which God supplies

Through His eternal Son;
Strong in the Lord of hosts,

And in His mighty power,
Who in the strength of Jesus trusts

Is more than conqueror.
2 Stand then in His great might,

With all His strength endued, And take, to arm you for the fight,

The panoply of God;

3 Leave no unguarded place,

No weakness of the soul,
Take every virtue, every grace,

And fortify the whole.
From strength to strength go on,

Wrestle and fight and pray,
Tread all the powers of darkness down,
And win the well-fought day.

Charles Wesley, 1749, arr.

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Who pa - tient bears his cross be- low, He

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fol- lows in His train.

A - men.

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3 A glorious band, the chosen few

On whom the Spirit came, Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,

And mocked the cross and flame; They met the tyrant's brandished steel,

The lion's gory mane, They bowed their necks the death to feel:

Who follows in their train?

4 A noble army, men and boys,

The matron and the maid,
Around the Saviour's throne rejoice,

In robes of light arrayed;
They climbed the steep ascent of heaven

Through peril, toil and pain:
O God, to us may grace be given
To follow in their train!

Reginald Heber, 1783-1826

PRESBYTER C. M. D.

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Copyright, 1895, by The Trustees of the Presbyterian Board of Publication and Sabbath-School Work 1 LIFT up your heads, ye gates of brass, 3 Though few and small and weak your bands, u Ye bars of iron, yield,

Strong in your Captain's strength And let the King of glory pass;

Go to the conquest of all lands; The cross is in the field:

All must be His at length: That banner, brighter than the star

Those spoils at His victorious feet
That leads the train of night,

You shall rejoice to lay,
Shines on their march, and guides from far And lay yourselves, as trophies meet,
His servants to the fight.

In His great judgment-day. 2 A holy war those servants wage;

4 O fear not, faint not, halt not now; Mysteriously at strife,

Quit you like men, be strong! The powers of heaven and hell engage To Christ shall all the nations bow, For more than death or life.

And sing with you this song: Ye armies of the living God,

"Uplifted are the gates of brass, His sacramental host,

The bars of iron yield; Where hallowed footsteps never trod

Behold the King of glory pass; Take your appointed post.

The cross hath won the field.”

James Montgomery, 1843, v: 4, line 3 alt.

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BELIEVE not those

ELIE

The upward path is smooth,
Lest thou shouldst stumble in the way

And faint before the truth.

2 It is the only road

Unto the realms of joy;
But he who seeks that blest abode

Must all his powers employ.

3 Arm, arm thee for the fight;

Cast useless loads away;
Watch through the darkest hours of night;

Toil through the hottest day.

4 To labor and to love,

To pardon and endure,
To lift thy heart to God above,

And keep thy conscience pure

5 Be this thy constant aim,

Thy hope, thy chief delight.
What matter who should whisper blame,

Or who should scorn or slight,

6 If but thy God approve,

And if, within thy breast,
Thou feel the comfort of His love,
The earnest of His rest!

Anne Brontë, 1850, v. 6, line 1 alt.

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