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447. C. M. TATE & BRADY.

Man frail, and God eternal. Ps. 90. 1 O LORD, the saviour and defence

Of us thy chosen race,
From age to age thou stil hast been

Our sure abiding place. 2 Before thou brought'st the mountains forth,

Or earth received its frame,
Thou always wert the mighty God,

And ever art the same.
3 Thou turnest man, O Lord, to dust,

Of which he first was made; And when thou speak’st the word, Return,

'Tis instantly obeyed.
4 For in thy sight a thousand years

Are like a day that's past,
Or like a watch in dead of night,

Whose hours unminded waste.
5 So teach us, Lord, the uncertain sum

Of our short days to mind,
That to true wisdom all our hearts

May ever be inclined.

448. C. M. WATTS,

Our Bodies frail, and God our Preserver.
1 Let others boast how strong they be,

Nor death nor danger fear;
But we'll confess, O Lord, to thee,

What feeble things we are.

2 Fresh as the grass our bodies stand,

And flourish bright and gay;
A blasting wind sweeps o'er the land,

And fades the grass away.
3 Our life contains a thousand springs,

And dies, if one be gone; Strange! that a harp of thousand strings

Should keep in tune so long. 4 But 't is our God supports our frame,

The God who built is first; Salvation to the Almighty Name

That reared us from the dust. 5 While we have breath, or use our tongues,

Our Maker we'll adore;
His Spirit moves our heaving lungs,

Or they would breathe no more.

449. C. M. WATTS.

Frail Life, and succeeding Eternity. 1 Thee we adore, Eternal Name,

And humbly own to thee
How feeble is our mortal frame;

What dying worms are we!
2 Our wasting lives grow shorter still,

As months and days increase;
And every beating pulse we tell

Leaves but the number less.
3 The year rolls round, and steals away

The breath that first it gave;
Whate'er we do, where'er we be,
We're travelling to the grave.

4 Dangers stand thick through all the ground,

To push us to the tomb;
And fierce diseases wait around,

To hurry mortals home.
5 Waken, O Lord, our drowsy sense

To walk this dangerous road; And, if our souls are hurried hence,

May they be found with God.

450. C. M.

Vanity of mortal Life.
1 The evils that beset our path,

Who can prevent or cure ?
We stand upon the brink of death,

When most we seem secure.
2 If we to-day sweet peace possess,

It soon may be withdrawn;
Some change may plunge us in distress,

Before to-morrow's dawn.
3 Disease and pain invade our health,

And find an easy prey ;
And oft, when least expected, wealth

Takes wings and flies away. 4 The gourds from which we look for fruit,

Produce us often pain;
A worm unseen attacks the root,

And all our hopes are vain.
5 Since sin has filled the earth with woe,

And creatures fade and die;
Lord, wean our hearts from things below,

And fix our hopes on high !

451. L. M. WATTS.

Death a Blessing to the Righteous. 1 Do flesh and nature dread to die?

And timorous thoughts our minds enslave? But grace can raise our hopes on high,

And quell the terrors of the grave. 2 Do we not dwell in clouds below,

And little know the God we love?
Why should we like this twilight so,
When 't is all noon in worlds above?

3 When we put off this fleshly load,

We're from a thousand mischiefs free,
Forever present with our God,

Where we have longed and wished to be. 4 No more shall pride or passion rise,

Or envy fret, or malice roar,
Or sorrow mourn with downcast eyes,

And sin defile our eyes no more.
5 'Tis best, 't is infinitely best,

tempters cannot come, Where saints and angels, ever blest,

Dwell and enjoy their heavenly home. 6 O for a visit from my God,

To drive my fears of death away,
And help me through this darksome road,
To realms of everlasting day!


452. C. M. WATTS.

Triumphant over Death.
1 Great God, I own the sentence just,

And nature must decay;
I yield my body to the dust,

To dwell with fellow clay.
2 Yet faith may triumph o'er the grave,

And trample on the tombs;
My Jesus, my Redeemer lives,

My God, my Saviour comes.
3 The mighty Conqueror shall appear

High on a royal seat,
And death, the last of all his foes,

Lie vanquished at his feet.

453. L. M. BROWNE.

Fear of Death overcome.
1 I CANNOT shun the stroke of death

Lord, help me to surmount the fear;
That when I must resign my breath,

Serene my summons I may hear.
2 'Tis sin gives venom to the dart-

In me let every sin be slain;
From secret faults, Lord, cleanse my heart,

From wilful sins my hands restrain. 3 May I, my God, with holy zeal,

Closely the ends of life pursue,
Seek thy whole pleasure to fulfil,
And honor thee in all I do!

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