fully blest!
They fought the fight, the victory won,
And entered into rest.

4 Then let our sorrows cease to flow,--
God has recalled his own;
But let our hearts, in every woe,
Still say, "Thy will be done!"

Wm. H. Bathurst, 1829.

496 Frederick. 11s.

_Death Not Fearful._

I would not live alway; I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
The few cloudy mornings that dawn on us here
Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer.

2 I would not live alway; no, welcome the tomb!
Since Jesus has lain there, I dread not its gloom;
There sweet be my rest till he bid me arise,
To hail him in triumph descending the skies.

3 Who, who would live alway, away from his God,
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns;

4 Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,
Their Savior and brethren transported to greet;
While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll,
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul?

W.A. Muhlenburg.

497 Thy Will Be Done. Chant

_Mark 14:36._

"Thy will be | done!" || In devious way
The hurrying stream of | life may | run; ||
Yet still our grateful hearts shall say, |
"Thy will be | done."

2 "Thy will be | done!" || If o'er us shine
A gladdening and a | prosperous | sun, ||
This prayer will make it more divine-- |
"Thy will be | done!"

3 "Thy will be | done!" || Tho' shrouded o'er
Our | path with | gloom, | one comfort, one ||
Is ours:--to breathe, while we adore, |
"Thy will be | done."

Sir. J. Bowring, 1825.

498 Shining Shore. 8s & 7s. Trochaic.

_On Jordan's Strand._ (1146)

My days are gliding swiftly by,
And I a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly,
Those hours of toil and danger.

Cho.--For, oh! we stand on Jordan's strand,
Our friends are passing over;
And, just before, the shining shore
We may almost discover.

2 We'll gird our loins, my brethren dear!
Our heav'nly home discerning;
Our absent Lord has left us word,--
"Let ev'ry lamp be burning."

3 Should coming days be cold and dark,
We need not cease our singing;
That perfect rest none can molest,
Where golden harps are ringing.

4 Let sorrow's rudest tempest blow,
Each cord on earth to sever;
Our King says,--"Come!" and there's our home,
Forever, oh! forever!