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(28) Salvation

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    SALVATION

    A Missionary Hymn,

  BY THE LATE BISHOP HEBER.

From Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains,
Roll down their golden sands,
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from Error's chain.

What tho' the spicy breezes
Blows soft o'er Ceylon's Isle,
And every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile,
In vain we lavish kindness,
The gifts of God are strewn,
The Heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone.

Shall we whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,
Shall we to men benighted,
The lamp of life deny,
Salvation, yea Salvation,
That joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation
Has learned Messiah's name.

Waft, waft ye winds the story,
And you ye waters roll,
Till like a sea of glory
It spreads from pole to pole,
Till all our ransom'd nature,
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss return to reign.

NOW DEATH IS COME.

I am a sinner quite undone,
I have a soul to save,
My hour glass is nearly run,
My mind is on the grave,
Long time I have been wrestling here,
Which makes me very ill,
Now Death is come—I must away—
I bid you all farewell.

If you have got a large estate,
When Death comes you must go,
Repent before it is too late,
For Death's an awful blow ;
My heart is full of misery,
My sorrows none can tell,
Now Death is come—I must away—
I bid you all farewell.

Repent while you are in your bloom,
Remember you must die,
For every sinner there is room,
That earnestly will cry ;
Lord, I have long offended thee,
I am ashamed to tell—
Now Death is come—I must away—
I bid you all farewell.

Alas ! the time it soon will come,
When we shall be no more,
If we can make our peace on earth,
Our trouble will be o'er,
O  Lamb of God, who died for all,
No love can thine excel,
Now Death is come—I must away—
I bid you all farewell.

Help me, O Lord, to win the prize,
And dwell with thee above,
I pray to rise and lift my eyes,
Rejoicing in thy love ;
Now give me grace that I may feel
The works of God to tell.
Now Death is come—I must away—
I bid you all farewell.

Saints and angels they are blest,
And heaven is their dues,
Death or everlasting rest,
You may have which you choose ;
Methinks I hear the angels sing,
In notes both loud and shrill,
Now Death is come—I must away—
I bid you all farewell.

Boast not, (oh ! king of terrors) Death,
Thy universal reign,
For tho' all mankind is born to die,
Yet all shall rise again ;
Thrice happy Christians, thro' their Lord,
Who when their time is o'er,
Shall in glorious realms of bliss,
Meet to part no more.

Printed by G. Walker, Jun., Sadler-Street, Durham.

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