( Originally Published Early 1900's )
FROM THE GERMAN.
DEAR Saviour, when I here am blest
With prospect of that future rest
Thy people shall inherit,
And there, by faith, see my abode ;—
How light my cares !—and all their load
How easy 'tis to bear it!
Then, too, the fond pursuits of earth
Are in my view as nothing worth ;—
Chased by the dawn of endless day,
Its gories pass like dreams away.
Lord Jesus Christ, sure ground of faith,
All this is owing to thy death.
When called the change of worlds to make
My soul shall from its fetters break—
Thou, from on high, be near me !
Thy rod and staff be then my stay—
Through Death's dark valley guide my way,—
With hopes of glory cheer me!
The splendours of the world of light,
Amid the all-surrounding night,
Shall through the couds of darkness shine,
Revealing what shall soon be mine.
Lord Jesus Christ, with cheerful faith,
I then shall sweetly sleep in death.
But should my heart, reluctant, shrink,
The cup of Death still fear to drink,
My sins begin to number ;
Then come the thought My Lord has died,
My sins—atoning bood shall hide,
Nor God will more remember !"
The hope, for sinners thou hast wrought,
Of life,—with nameless sorrows bought,
Which, God-forsaken, thou didst meet,—
'Tis this aone makes dying sweet.
Lord Jesus Christ, my only faith,
Do not forsake me at my death !
In hope my weeping eyes close,
My flesh in earth shall find repose,
Where my Redeemer rested :
And he that died, from death to save,—
His voice will call me from the grave,-
I know whom I have trusted.
He lives !—and foes I feared beow,
The Grave and Death—his power shall know;
He lives !—and I, with saints above,
Shall know the wonders of his love.
Lord Jesus Christ, my spirit's faith,
For life prepare me by my death !
My confidence shalt thou remain
Till thou on earth appear again
The tombs be rent asunder :
Before thy throne I there shall be,
The Judge of all the nations see
Shall see with joy and wonder.
Then will thy grace to me divide
A portion always to abide,
And I shall share, by promise shown,
A gory lasting as thy own.
Thanks, Lord, to thee !—with shouts I'll sing,
"Where, Grave, thy victory ?—Death, thy sting?"