Childhood Piety. (1180)

By cool Siloam’s shady rill,
  How fair the lily grows! 
How sweet the breath, beneath the hill,
  Of Sharon’s dewy rose!

2 Lo! such the child whose early feet
  The paths of peace have trod,
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
  Is upward drawn to God.

3 By cool Siloam’s shady rill
  The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
  Must shortly fade away.

4 And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
  Of man’s maturer age
Will shake the soul with sorrow’s pow’r. 
  And stormy passions rage.

     Reginald Heber, 1812.

534 Swanwick.  C.M.

A New House of Worship. (1176)

God of the universe! to thee
  This sacred house we rear,
And now, with songs and bended knee,
  Invoke thy presence here.

2 Long may this echoing dome resound
  The praises of thy name,
These hallowed walls to all around
  The Triune God proclaim.

3 Here let thy love, thy presence dwell;
  Thy glory here make known;
Thy people’s home, oh! come and fill,
  And seal it as thine own.

4 And, when the last long Sabbath morn
  Upon the just shall rise,
May all who own thee here be borne
  To mansions in the skies.

     Miss Mary O——­, 1841.

535 Swanwick.  C.M.

Church Opening.

Arise, O King of grace, arise,
  And enter to thy rest;
Lo! thy church waits, with longing eyes,
  Thus to be owned and blest.

2 Enter with all thy glorious train. 
  Thy Spirit and thy word;
All that the ark did once contain
  Could no such grace afford.

3 Here, mighty God, accept our vows,
  Here let thy praise be spread;
Bless the provisions of thy house
  And fill thy poor with bread.

4 Here let the Son of David reign,
  Let God’s Anointed shine;
Justice and truth his court maintain
  With love and power divine.

5 Here let him hold a lasting throne,
  And as his kingdom grows,
Fresh honors shall adorn his crown. 
  And shame confound his foes.

     Isaac Watts.

536 Swanwick.  C.M.

Temperance Meeting. (1186)

’Tis thine alone, almighty Name,
  To raise the dead to life,
The lost inebriate to reclaim
  From passion’s fearful strife.

2 What ruin hath intemperance wrought,
  How widely roll its waves! 
How many myriads hath it brought
  To fill dishonored graves!

3 And see, O Lord! what numbers still
  Are maddened by the bowl,
Led captive at the tyrant’s will,
  In bondage heart and soul!

4 Stretch forth thy hand, O God, our King! 
  And break the galling chain;
Deliverance to the captive bring,
  And end th’ usurper’s reign.