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The gift of heav'n, my solace and my pride,
theme ! And when pale death, disarm'd of ev'ry sting, Shall hush the fault'ring music of my lyre, May my rejoicing spirit, freed from sin, And ev'ry mortal stain, to Thee ascend A pure
and fit inhabitant for heav'n, Worthy its great Creator! there to join With angels and archangels, in the song Of man's redemption, and of Him whose birth Recording seraphs hail'd with hymns of joy, Till heav'n's eternal courts responsive breath'd Celestial music--whose sojourn below Was mark'd with sorrow, infamy, and death. In majesty, on God's right hand, behold He sits the righteous judge; his bruised head No more encircled with a crown of thorns, But princely diadem-Glory to thee, Fountain of light and life, for this sure hope, That my immortal spirit shall awake With new-born rapture from her earthly tomb, And thro' eternal ages sing thy love In hymns of endless joy, and endless praise.
O FOR a sound more soft and clear,
When touch'd with God's ethereal fire,
And bade his soul-subduing lyre
And Thou, who tun'd the varying strings
Of David's harp to sounds of woe,
To hear the heav'nly numbers flow,
That bade all heav'n with hallelujahs ring;
OfGod's anointed Son, and heav'n'seternal King!
O Salem ! what a day is thine,
See hope her hallow'd temple rears! Lift up your eyes, and hail the morn, To you a holy babe is born,
The child of promis'd years ;
Bow your heads, ye mountains high,
Assembled nations prostrate fall Hark! the hills exulting cry
“He brings salvation down to all!”.
Softly sweet the echo rings-
And peace to men be giv'n.—”
Hosts of heav'n !
Lo, the sound hath reach'd the skies ! Hark! what strains seraphic rise
Among the heav'nly choirsList'ning saints their voices raise, Swell the chorus of his praise,
And strike their golden Lyres !
To thee redemption's work is dear, Thy love shall wipe the sinner's tear,
Thy hand his cruel bondage break :The dumb shall lift their song to thee, The lame shall walk, the blind shall see;
Thy voice shall bid the dead awake !
To those of meek and lowly heart,
And prove the saints' eternal guide ;
Where Zion's crystal waters glide.
No more shall war, with iron reign,
His death-denouncing trumpet blow;* Heap up his mountains of the slain,
And fill the world with woe.
But heav'nly Peace, on dove-like wing,
While heathen lands, with cheerful voice,
Afric, behold thy King-rejoice! rejoice!
In that dread hour of mortal doom,
When Death shall final ruin spread ;
“ His war-denouncing trumpet took."-Collins. And earth, from ev'ry yawning tomb