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WE

HEN all Thy mercies, O my God,
My rifing 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 flowed.

When in the flippery 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 pleafing snares of vice,
More to be feared than they.

When worn with fickness, 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 leaft a cheerful heart

That tastes those gifts with joy.

Through every period of my life
Thy goodness I'll pursue;

And after death, in diftant worlds,
The glorious theme renew!

Joseph Addison. 1728.

"Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.”

ciii. 2.

MY Whose mercies are so great:

soul repeat His praise,

Whose anger is so flow 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.

PSALM

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 compaffions, Lord,

To endless years endure;

And children's children ever find

Thy word of promise sure.

Isaac Watts. 1674-1748.

SEED-TIME AND HARVEST.

COME, ye thankful people, come,

Raise the song of Harvest-Home!

All is safely gathered in,

Ere the winter-ftorms begin;

God, our Maker, doth provide

For our wants to be supplied;
Come to God's own temple, come,
Raise the song of Harveft-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 fhall appear :
Grant, O Harveft-Lord, that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be !

For the Lord our God fhall come,
And fhall take His harvest home!
From His field fhall purge away
All that doth offend, that day;
Give His angels charge at laft
In the fires the tares to caft,
But the fruitful ears to store

In His garner evermore.

Then, thou Church triumphant, come,
Raise the song of Harveft-Home !

All are safely gathered in,

Free from sorrow, free from fin,
There forever, purified,

In God's garner to abide:

Come, ten thousand angels, come,

Raise the glorious Harvest-Home!

Henry Alford. 1845.

ΙΟ

BEF

PRAISE TO OUR CREATOR.

EFORE Jehovah's awful throne,
Ye nations bow with sacred joy;
Know that the Lord is God alone;
He can create and He deftroy.

His sovereign power, without our aid,
Made us of clay, and formed us men;
And when, like wandering fheep, 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 fhall 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.

Wide as the world is Thy command;
Vaft as eternity Thy love;

Firm as a rock Thy truth fhall stand,
When rolling years fhall cease to move.

Isaac Watts. 1674-1748.

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