| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
The Book of Praise.
CLVIII.
The waves of trouble, how they rise, How loud the tempests roar !
But death shall land our weary souls Safe on the heavenly shore.
There, to fulfil His sweet commands, Our speedy feet shall move;
No sin shall clog our winged zeal, Or cool our burning love.
There shall we sit, and sing, and tell
The wonders of His grace, Till heavenly raptures fire our hearts,
And smile in every face.
For ever His dear sacred Name Shall dwell upon our tongue,
And Jesus p.nd salvation be The close of every song.
Isaac Watts, i |
||
|
CLIX.
Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell,
With all your feeble light: Farewell, thou ever-changing moon,
Pale empress of the night.
And thou, refulgent orb of day,
In brighter flames array'd ; My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere,
No more demands thine aid. |
||