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The Book of Praise.
Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord, we love; But there's a nobler rest above ; To that our labouring souls aspire With ardent pangs of strong desire.
No more fatigue, no more distress ; Nor sin nor hell shall reach the place ; No groans to mingle with the songs Which warble from immortal tongues.
No rude alarms of raging foes ; No cares to break the long repose ; No midnight shade, no clouded sun, But sacred, high, eternal noon.
O long-expected day, begin ! Dawn on these realms of woe and sin! Fain would we leave this weary road, And sleep in death, to rest with God \
Philip Doddridge. 1755.
CCCXIX.
To Thy temple I repair ; Lord, I love to worship there ; WThen, within the veil, I meet Christ before the mercy-seat.
Thou, through Him, art reconciled ; I, through Him, became Thy child ; Abba, Father ! give me grace In Thy courts to seek Thy face !
While Thy glorious praise is sung, Touch my lips, unloose my tongue, That my joyful soul may bless Thee, the Lord my Righteousness ! |
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