FUNERAL.

HYMN 565.

C. M.

Martyrs, Lebanon.

Funeral of a faithful Minister.

FAR

AR from affliction, toil, and care,
The happy soul is fled;

The breathless clay shall slumber here,
Among the silent dead.

2 The gospel was his joy and song,
E'en to his latest breath;
The truth he had proclaim'd so long
Was his support in death.

3 Now he resides where Jesus is,
Above this dusky sphere;
His soul was ripen'd for that bliss,
While yet he sojourn'd here.

4 The Churches' loss we all deplore,
And shed the falling tear;

Since we shall see his face no more,
Till Jesus shall appear.

But we are hasting to the tomb;

Oh, may we ready stand;

Then, dearest Lord, receive us home,
To dwell at thy right hand.

-COLLYER.

HYMN 566. L. M.

FROM

Kingsbridge, Armley.

Eccl. xii. 7.

ROM his low bed of mortal dust,
Escap'd the prison of his clay,

The new inhabitant of bliss,

To heav'n directs his ond'rous way. 2 Ye fields, that witness'd once his tears, Ye winds, that wafted oft his sighs, Ye mountains, where he breath'd his pray'rs,

When sorrow's shadows veil'd his eyes; 3 No more the weary pilgrim mourns,

No more affliction wrings his heart; Th' unfetter'd soul to God returnsFor ever he and anguish part!4 Receive, O earth, his faded form, In thy cold bosom let it lie; Safe let it rest from ev'ry stormSoon must it rise no more to die!

The grave.

THE grave is now a favor'd spot,—
To saints who sleep, in Jesus bless'd;
For there the wicked trouble not,
And there the weary are at rest.

2 At rest in Jesus' faithful arms; At rest as in a peaceful bed;

Secure from all the dreadful storms, Which round this sinful world are spread.

9 Thrice happy souls, who're gone before To that inheritance divine!

They labor, sorrow, sigh no more, But brightin endless glory shine. 4 Then let our mournful tears be dry, Or in a gentle measure flow; We hail them happy in the sky, And joyful wait our call to go.

1

HYMN 568. L. M.

Sicilian, Putney, Armley.

WATTS.

[NVEIL thy bosom, faithful tomb,
Take this new treasure to thy trust;
And give these sacred relics room,
To seek a slumber in the dust.

2 Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear
Invade thy bounds. No mortal woes
Can reach the peaceful sleeper here,
While angels watch the soft repose.
3 So Jesus slept ;-God's dying Son
Pass'd thro' the grave, and blest the bed;
Rest here, blest saint, till from his throne
The morning break, and pierce the shade.
4 Break from his throne, illustrious morn;
Attend, O earth! his sov'reign word;
Restore thy trust—a glorious form—
Call'd to ascend and meet the Lord.

HYMN 569. 8s.

C. WESLEY.

1

H%

Lambeth, Mitcham, Franklin.

Death of a Brother.

OW blest is our brother bereft
Of all that could burden his mind;

How easy the soul that has left
This wearisome body behind!
Of evil incapable thou,
Whose relics with envy I see,
No longer in misery now,

No longer a sinner like me.

2 This earth is affected no more

With sickness, or shaken with pain;
The war in the members is o'er,
And never shall vex him again;
No anger henceforward, or shame,
Shall redden his innocent clay;
Extinct is the animal flame,

And passion is vanish'd away.
3 This languishing head is at rest;
Its thinking and aching are o'er ;
This quiet, immoveable breast
Is heav'd by affliction no more;
This heart is no longer the seat
Of trouble and torturing pain;
It ceases to flutter and beat-
It never shall flutter again.

4 The lids he so seldom could close,
By sorrow forbidden to sleep,
Seal'd up in eternal repose,

Have strangely forgotten to weep;

These fountains can yield no suppliesThese hollows from water are free; The tears are all wip'd from these eyes, And evil they never shall see.

5 To mourn and to suffer is mine, While bound in a prison I breathe, And still for deliverance pine,

And press to the issues of death. What now with my tears I bedew, Oh, shall I not shortly become! My spirit created anew,

Ere I am consign'd to the tomb!

HYMN 570. 8s.

Mitcham, Uxbridge, Franklin.
Death of a Sister

1 'IS finish'd! the conflict is past,
The heav'n-born spirit is fled;

Her wish is accomplish'd at last,
And now she's entomb'd with the dead.
The months of affliction are o'er,
The days and the nights of distress;
We see her in anguish no more-
She's gained her happy release.
No sickness, or sorrow, or pain,
Shall ever disquiet her now;
For death to her spirit was gain,

Since Christ was her life when below.
Her soul has now taken its flight
To mansions of glory above,

To mingle with angels of light,
And dwell in the kingdom of love.