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The Book of Praise.
Sweet is the day of sacred rest; No mortal cares shall seize my breast; O may my heart in tune be found, Like David's harp of solemn sound !
My heart shall triumph in my Lord, And bless His works, and bless His word : Thy works of grace, how bright they shine ! How deep Thy counsels, how divine !
Fools never raise their thoughts so high, Like brutes they live, like brutes they die ; Like grass they flourish, till Thy breath Blast them in everlasting death.
But I shall share a glorious part, When grace hath well refined my heart, And fresh supplies of joy are shed, Like holy oil to cheer my head.
Sin, my worst enemy before, Shall vex my eyes and ears no more ; My inward foes shall all be slain, Nor Satan break my peace again.
Then shall I see and hear and know All I desired or wish'd below, And every power find sweet employ In that eternal world of joy !
Isaac Watts. 1719.
CCCXV.
Psalm LXXXI.
Sing to the Lord, our might, With holy fervour sing ; Let hearts and instruments unite To praise our heavenly King. |
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