Hark, hark, my soul! angelic songs are swelling

O'er earth's green fields and ocean's wave-beat shore:
How sweet the truth those blesséd strains are telling
Of that new life when sin shall be no more!

Angels of Jesus, angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night!

Far, far away, like bells at evening pealing,
The voice of Jesus sounds o'er land and sea,
And laden souls by thousands meekly stealing,
Kind Shepherd, turn their weary steps to thee.
Angels of Jesus, angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night!

Onward we go, for still we hear them singing,
'Come, weary souls, for Jesus bids you come';
And through the dark, its echoes sweetly ringing,
The music of the gospel leads us home.
Angels of Jesus, angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night!

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER, 1854

DUNFERMLINE. C. M.

4 4

4

24

468.

SCOTTISH PSALTER, 1615.

The land of pure delight.

There is a land of pure delight
Where saints immortal reign,
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.
There everlasting spring abides,
And never withering flowers;
Death, like a narrow sea, divides
This heavenly land from ours.

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood
Stand dressed in living green:
So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
While Jordan rolled between.

But timorous mortals start and shrink
To cross this narrow sea,

And linger shivering on the brink,
And fear to launch away.

O! could we make our doubts remove,
Those gloomy doubts that rise

And see the Canaan that we love

With unbeclouded eyes:

Could we but climb where Moses stood,

And view the landscape o'er;

Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood,

Should fright us from the shore.

A-MEN.

ISAAC WATTS, 1707.