Where tears are wiped from every eye,

And sorrow is unknown;

From the burthen of the flesh,

And from care and fear released,

Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er, And borne the heavy load,

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet To reach his blest abode ;

Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus,

Upon his father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor doubt thy faith assail,

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail:

And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

'Earth to earth,' and dust to dust,'

The solemn priest hath said:

So we lay the turf above thee now,

And we seal thy narrow bed: But thy spirit, brother, soars away Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us,
Whom thou hast left behind,

May we, untainted by the world,

As sure a welcome find:

May each, like thee, depart in peace,

To be a glorious guest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

A PENITENT.

I would, but cannot sing,

Guilt has untuned my voice,

The serpent sin's envenomed sting

Has poisoned all my joys.

Milman.

I know the Lord is nigh,

And would, but cannot pray,
For Satan meets me when I try,
And frights my soul away.

I would, but can't repent,
Though I endeavour oft ;
This stony heart can ne'er relent
Till Jesus make it soft.

I would, but cannot love,
Though wooed by love divine:

No arguments have power to move
A soul so base as mine.

I would, but cannot rest

In God's most holy will;

I know what he appoints is best,
Yet murmur at it still.

O could I but believe!

Then all would easy be;

I would, but cannot-Lord, relieve; My help must come from thee!

But if indeed I would,

Though I can nothing do;

Yet the desire is something good,
For which my praise is due.

By nature prone to ill,
Till thine appointed hour,
I was as destitute of will,
As now I am of power.

Wilt thou not crown at length
The work thou hast begun ?
And with a will afford me strength

In all thy ways to run.

PROVIDENCE.

God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.

Newton.

Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust him for his

grace;

Behind a frowning Providence

He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his work in vain;

God is his own interpreter,

And he will make it plain.

Cowper.