O thou afflicted, come;

The God of peace shall meet thee there;

He makes that house his home.

2

Come to the house of praise,

3

4

Ye who are happy now;

In sweet accord your voices raise,

Your knees together bow.

Ye aged, hither come,

For ye have felt his love:

Soon shall your trembling tongues be dumb,

Your lips forget to move.

Ye young, before his throne

Your cheerful anthems raise;

Nor let your hearts his praise disown,

Who gives the power to praise.

5

Thou, whose benignant eye

In mercy looks on all,

Who seest the tear of misery,

And hear'st the mourner's call,

6

Up to thy dwelling-place

Bear our frail spirits on,

Till they outstrip time's tardy pace,
And heaven on earth be won.

L. M.

V.

WATTS.

1 FROM all that dwell below the skies
Let the Creator's praise arise;
Let the Redeemer's Name be sung
Through every land, by every tongue.

2 Eternal are thy mercies, Lord; Eternal truth attends thy word:

Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore, Till suns shall rise and set no more.

GIVE thanks to God, the heavenly King,
Whose mercies still endure;

Let the whole earth his praises sing,

Whose truth is ever sure.

L. M.

VII.

PIERPOINT.

10 THOU, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung,
Whom kings adored in song sublime,
And prophets praised with glowing tongue!

2 Not now on Zion's height alone
The favoured worshiper may dwell,
Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son
Sat weary by the patriarch's well.

3 From every place below the skies,

The grateful song, the fervent prayer,
The incense of the heart, may rise
To heaven, and find acceptance there.

4 To thee shall age, with snowy hair,
And strength and beauty, bend the knee,
And childhood lisp, with reverent air,
Its praises and its prayers to thee.

5 O thou, to whom, in ancient time, The lyre of prophet bards was strung! To thee, at last, in every clime

Shall temples rise, and praise be sung.

L. M,

VIII.

NORTON.

1 WHERE ancient forests widely spread,
Where bends the cataract's ocean-fall;
On the lone mountain's silent head:
There are thy temples, God of all!

2 Beneath the dark blue midnight arch, Whence myriad suns pour down their rays, Where planets trace their ceaseless march, Father! we worship as we gaze.

3 The tombs thine altars are, for there,
When earthly loves and hopes have fled,
To thee ascends the spirit's prayer,
Thou God of the immortal dead!

4 All space is holy, for all space

Is filled by thee: but human thought
Burns clearer in some chosen place,
Where thy own words of love are taught.

5 Here be they taught: and may we know That faith thy servants knew of old, Which onward bears through weal or woe, Till death the gates of heaven unfold.

6 Nor we alone: may those whose brow
Shows yet no trace of human cares,
Hereafter stand where we do now,
And raise to thee still holier prayers.

1 THIRSTING for a living spring, Seeking for a higher home,

AMERICAN COLL.

Resting where our souls must cling,
Trusting, hoping, Lord, we come.

2 Glorious hopes our spirit fill,
When we feel that thou art near:
Father then our fears are still,
Then the soul's bright end is clear.

3 Life's hard conflict we would win,
Read the meaning of life's frown;
Change the thorn-bound wreath of sin
For the spirit's starry crown.

4 Make us beautiful within

By thy spirit's holy light;

Guard us when our faith burns dim,

Father of all love and might!