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W HEN all Thy mercies, O my God,

My rising soul surveys, Transported with the view, I’m loft

In wonder, love, and praise.

Unnumbered comforts to my soul

Thy tender care bestowed, Before my infant heart conceived

From whence these comforts Alowed.

When in the slippery paths of youth

With heedless steps I ran,
Thine arm, unseen, conveyed me safe,

And led me up to man.

Through hidden dangers, toils, and death,

It gently cleared my way ;
And through the pleasing snares of vice,

More to be feared than they.

When worn with sickness, oft haft Thou

With health renewed my face ;
And, when in fins and sorrows sunk,

Revived my soul with grace.

Ten thousand, thousand precious gifts

My daily thanks employ;
Nor is the least a cheerful heart

That tastes those gifts with joy.

Through every period of my life

Thy goodness I'll pursue ;
And after death, in distant worlds,
The glorious theme renew! . ,

Joseph Addison.

1728.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.” – Psalm ciii. 2.

M Y soul repeat His praise,

1 Whose mercies are so great : Whose anger is so slow to rise,

So ready to abate.

High as the heavens are raised

Above the ground we tread,
So far the riches of his grace

Our highest thoughts exceed.

His power subdues our fins,

And his forgiving love,
Far as the east is from the west,

Doth all our guilt remove.

The pity of the Lord

To those that fear his name Is such as tender parents feel ;

He knows our feeble frame.

Our days are as the grass,

Or like the morning flower;
If one sharp blast sweeps o'er the field,

It withers in an hour.

But thy compassions, Lord,

To endless years endure ;
And children's children ever find
Thy word of promise sure.

Isaac Watts.

1674 - 1748.

SEED-TIME AND HARVEST.

C OME, ye thankful people, come,

u Raise the song of Harvest-Home !
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter-storms begin ;
God, our Maker, doth provide
For our wants to be supplied ;
Come to God's own temple, come,
Raise the song of Harvest-Home !

We ourselves are God's own field,
Fruit unto His praise to yield;
Wheat and tares together sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown :
First the blade, and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear :
Grant, O Harvest-Lord, that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be !

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Then, thou Church triumphant, come,
Raise the song of Harvest-Home !
All are safely gathered in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin,
There forever, purified,
In God's garner to abide :
Come, ten thousand angels, come,
Raise the glorious Harvest-Home !

Henry Alford. 1845.

TO

PRAISE TO OUR CREATOR.

DEFORE Jehovah's awful throne,

) Ye nations bow with sacred joy ; Know that the Lord is God alone;

He can create and He destroy.

His sovereign power, without our aid,

Made us of clay, and formed us men; And when, like wandering sheep, we strayed,

He brought us to His fold again.

We are His people, we His care;

Our souls, and all our mortal frame : What lasting honors shall we rear,

Almighty Maker, to Thy name?

We'll crowd Thy gates, with thankful songs,

High as the heaven our voices raise ; And earth, with her ten thousand tongues,

Shall fill Thy courts with sounding praise.

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