Thy flock, thy own peculiar care, They neither know nor trace the way, My favoured soul shall meekly learn A Psalm of Praise. YE holy angels bright, Who stand before God's throne, You there, so nigh, Are much more meet Than we, the feet, For things so high. You blessed souls at rest, That see your Saviour's face, Whose glory, even the least, Is far above our grace; God's praises sound, With sweet delight, All nations of the earth Extol the world's great King, With melody and mirth His glorious praises sing; For he still reigns, And will bring low The proudest foe That him disdains. Sing forth Jehovah's praise His holy churches all; In him rejoice, And thus proclaim His holy name My soul, bear thou thy part; Triumph in God above; With a full-tunéd heart, Sing thou the songs of love. Thou art his own, Whose precious blood, His love made known. He did in love begin, Showed thee his pleased face. He did thee heal By his Son's merit, In saddest thoughts and grief, In sickness, fears, and pain, I cried for his relief, And it was not in vain. He heard with speed; And still I found Mercy abound, Let not his praises grow On prosperous heights alone; But in the vales below Let his great love be known. Let no distress Curb and control My wingéd soul, Let not the fear or smart Of his chastising rod, Take off my fervent heart From praising my dear God. Whate'er I feel, This offering, And to him kneel. Though I lose friends and wealth, Which would destroy Though human help depart, Let faith keep up my heart, Let no disease Cause me to cease Though sin would make me doubt, And fill my soul with fears, Though God seems to shut out My daily cries and tears: By no such frost Of sad delays, Let thy sweet praise Be nipped and lost. Away, distrustful care! I have thy oath and word. Shall see thy face, And there thy grace Though sin and death conspire Still towards thee I'll aspire, And thou dull hearts canst raise. Open thy door; And when grim death Shall stop this breath, I'll praise thee more. With thy triumphant flock Then I shall numbered be; Built on th' eternal rock, His glory we shall see. The sun is but a spark From the eternal light: To that most glorious sight: |