The book of sacred song . 44 THE BOOK OF SACRED SONG. And sends the fowls to us, in care,On daily visits through the hangs in shades the orange bright,Like golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranate closeJewels more rich than Ormuz makes the figs our mouths to meet,And throws the melons at our feet;With cedars, chosen by His handFrom Lebanon, He stores the cast, of which we rather boast,The gospel-pearl upon our coast,And in these rocks for us did frameA temple, where to sound His let our voice His praise exalt,Till it arrive in heavens vault,Which
The book of sacred song . 44 THE BOOK OF SACRED SONG. And sends the fowls to us, in care,On daily visits through the hangs in shades the orange bright,Like golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranate closeJewels more rich than Ormuz makes the figs our mouths to meet,And throws the melons at our feet;With cedars, chosen by His handFrom Lebanon, He stores the cast, of which we rather boast,The gospel-pearl upon our coast,And in these rocks for us did frameA temple, where to sound His let our voice His praise exalt,Till it arrive in heavens vault,Which thence, perhaps, rebounding, mayEcho beyond the Mexique bay. Thus sang they in the English boatAn holy and a cheerful note •And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time. MarvelL. ELIZABETHAN : STUART. 45 DIES IR^E. ^|HE last loud trumpets wondroussoundShall through the rending tombs re-bound,And wake the nations under ground. Nature and Death shall, with surprise, Behold the pale offender rise, And view the Judge with conscious eyes. Then shall, with universal dread,The sacred mystic book be read,To try the living and the dead. The Judge ascends His awful throne,He makes each secret sin be known,And all with shame confess their own. O then, what interest shall I make, To save my last important stake When the most just have cause to quake ? Thou mighty, formidable King,Thou mercys unexhausted spring,Some comfortable pity bring ! 4^ THE BOOK OF SACRED SONG. Forget not what my ransom cost,Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost,In storms of guilty terror tost. Thou who for me didst feel such pain,Whose precious blood the cross did stain,Let not those agonies be vain ! Thou, who wert moved by Marys grief,And by absolving of the thiefHast given me hope, now give relief
Size: 1570px × 1591px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, booksubjectenglishpoetry, booksubjectreligiousp
