Through all eternity, to thee A joyful song I'll raise; But oh! eternity's too short To utter all thy praise! SECTION 23. Hymn on preservation by land and sea: How are thy servants bless'd, O Lord! How sure is their defence! In foreign realms, and lands remote, Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt Thy mercy sweeten'd ev'ry soil; Think, O my soul, devoutly think, Confusion dwelt in ev'ry face, And fear in ev'ry heart, When waves on waves, and gulfs in gulfs, O'ercame the pilot's art. Yet then, from all my griefs, O Lord, Thy mercy set me free; Whilst in the confidence of pray r, My soul took hold on thee. For though in dreadful whirls we hung, High on the broken wave, I knew thou wast not slow to hear, The storm was laid, the winds retir'd, The sea that roar'd at thy command, In midst of danger, fears, and death, And praise thee for thy mercies past; My life, if thou preserve my life, Thy sacrifice shall be: And death, when death must be my doom, Shall join my soul to thee. SECTION 24. The husbandman's hymn. THOU great Creator of this earth, That gave to ev'ry seed its birth; By whom our fields with show'rs are bless'd; In vain, our seed around we throw ; Let then thy blessing, Lord, attend Let not our sins thy vengeance move; And o'er our fields to spread a dearth But pour in season on the grain Forbid the vermin to devour; Crown with thy goodness, Lord, the year; Give to the sons of men their bread; Give us abundance, Lord, we pray, Thou, Lord, vouchsafe to bless our land, SECTION 25. A hymn of praise. Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will joy in the God of my salvation. HABAKKUK iii. 17, 18. PRAISE to God, immortal praise, Let thy praise our tongues employ ! For the blessings of the field; Flocks that whiten all the plain; All that Spring, with bounteous hand, These to thee, my God, we owe; Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear, Should the vine put forth no more, Though the sick'ning flocks should fall, Should thine alter'd hand restrain Yet, to thee my soul should raise SECTION 26. Hymn on the birth of Christ. ARISE, and hail the happy day; And thought of meaner things! If angels, on that happy morn Pour'd forth their joyful songs; Much more should we of human race, Adore the wonders of his grace, To whom that grace belongs. N |