821

THE MORNING BREAKS. L. M.

F. D. BARNES.

1 The morning breaks, the saints come forth, Earth shall no more conceal her slain; Though now entombed in sea and earth, They shall come forth with Christ to reign.

2 The morning breaks, the conq'ror comes, No more shall death the tyrant reign; He comes to bring his fallen ones

Unto their own blood-bought domain.

3 The morning breaks, the day comes on, When pain and death no more shall be ; When Christ shall bring his people home, To spend the long eternity.

822

F. D. BARnes.

1 O happy day! that bursts the tomb,

And sets the joyful prisoners free; That lifts the saints from death and gloom To life and immortality.

2 O happy day! when earth so bright,
In Eden robes shall bloom again;
Her beauty no decay shall blight,
Nor death e'er tread her wide domain.

3 O happy day! when far around,

Through all this universal frame, One glorious anthem shall resound Of blessing to Jehovah's name. 4 O happy day! that knows no night; No sorrow with thy joy shall blend ; No clouds shall e'er obscure thy light; Thy scenes of glory ne'er shall end.

U. SMITH.

That kindred souls, on earth disjoined, Shall meet, from earthly dross refined. But for this hope, this blessed stay, When earthly comforts all decay, O who could view th' expiring eye, Nor wish, with those they love, to die? But we have brighter hopes: we know Short is this pilgrimage of woe; We know that our Redeemer lives; We trust the promises he gives. 824

3

1 Spare us, O Lord, aloud we cry,
Nor let our sun go down at noon;
Thy years are one eternal day,

And must thy children die so soon?
2 Yet in the midst of death and grief,
This thought our sorrow shall assuage :
Our Father and our Saviour lives,

Christ is the same through every age. 3 'T was he this earth's foundation laid; Heaven is the building of his hand; This earth grows old, these heavens shall fade,

And all be changed at his command. 4 Before thy face thy saints shall live,

And on thy throne thy children reign; The fading world they shall survive, And from their graves be raised again.

3 24

his hand.

1 I know that my Redeemer lives,

He lives, and on the earth shall stand; And though to worms my flesh he gives, My dust lies numbered in his hand.

2 In this reanimated clay

I surely shall behold him near;
Shall see him in the latter day

In all his majesty appear.

3 I know what then shall raise me up;
The quickening Spirit dwells in me!
This is my confidence and hope,
That I him face to face shall see.

4 Mine own, and not another's eyes,
The King shall in his beauty view;
I shall from him receive the prize,
The starry crown to victors due.

826

1 The saints may rest within the tomb
Awhile until the morning come;
Then shall they rise to meet their God,
And ever dwell in his abode.

2 Celestial dawn! Triumphant hour!
How glorious that awakening power
Which bids the sleeping dust arise,
And join the anthems of the skies!
3 This weary life will soon be past,
The lingering morn will come at last,
And gloomy mists will roll away
Before that bright, unfading day.

A. STEELE.

827

1 Almighty Maker of my frame, Teach me the measure of my days; Teach me to know how frail I am, And spend the remnant to thy praise. 2 My days are shorter than a span; A little point my life appears; How frail at best is dying man! How vain are all his hopes and fears! 3 O spare me, and my strength restore, Ere my few hasty minutes flee; And when the course of time is o'er, Then raise me up to dwell with thee. 828

1 Blessed are they henceforth that die Reclining on the Saviour's breast; They cease from every care and sigh, From all their labors they have rest. 2 No more they meet with cruel foes,

No more with anxious care oppressed : They warred the conflict till life's close; Their toil is o'er, they sweetly rest.

3 The living saints have yet to meet

And brave the tempter's utmost ire; The grave will be a blest retreat [dire. While earth is whelmed in troubles 4 Thy righteous will be done, O God! To meet the foe and overcome, Or lay me down beneath the sod To rest till thou shalt call me home. R. F. COTTRELL.

830 SWEETLY SING. Ss & 75. ff Maestoso.

1 Sweetly sing, ye winds, the brightness
That remaineth for the dead,
Who, in robes of stainless whiteness,
Soon shall leave the dusty bed.
Darkness reigns where they are lying,
But they only wait the day
When shall cease the mourner's sighing,
As the death-gloom flees away.
2 Summer winds be softly singing

All around their blessed graves;
Flowers sweet, be fragrance flinging,
As the verdure o'er them waves.
Nevermore shall they know sorrow,

Nevermore shall sadly weep,
For there comes a glad to-morrow,
When they rise from sacred sleep.

3 They shall leave the dust, all beaming,
Like the plumage of the dove,
Gay with gold and silver gleaming,
As it sings its song of love.
Christ shall raise them in his glory,

They shall in his image shine,
And the blaze of song and story

Shall be dimmed by light divine.

4 Sweetly sing, ye birds, their brightness, When, through all the summer day, Ye may leap with wings of lightness, When the frosts have passed away. Even now the silver lining

Is around the gloom we dread, Glowing with an endless shining, Which shall robe the blessed dead. G. R. KRAMER.