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The Book of Praise.
It makes the wounded spirit whole, And calms the troubled breast;
'Tis manna to the hungry soul, And to the weary rest.
Dear Name! the rock on which I build,
My shield and hiding-place, My never-failing treasury, fill'd
With boundless stores of grace,
By Thee my prayers acceptance gain,
Although with sin defiled ; Satan accuses me in vain,
And I am owned a child.
Jesus, my Shepherd, Husband, Friend, My Prophet, Priest, and King,
My Lord, my Life, my Way, my End, Accept the praise I bring.
Weak is the effort of my heart, And cold my warmest thought;
But, when I see Thee as Thou art, I'll praise Thee as I ought.
Till then, I would Thy love proclaim
With every fleeting breath ; And may the music of Thy Name
Refresh my soul in death!
John Neivton. i |
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