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Ye Gentile sinners, ne'er forget

The wormwood and the gall ;
Go, spread your trophies at His feet,

And crown Him Lord of all.

Let every kindred, every tribe,

On this terrestrial ball,
To Him all majesty ascribe,

And crown Him Lord of all,

Oh that with yonder sacred throng

We at His feet may fall,
There join the everlasting song,

And crown Him Lord of all !


To the organising faculty and amazing activity of John Wesley, there was provided a remarkable antithesis or supplement in the poetic fire of his brother Charles; and to the society so wonderfully brought together by the practical energy of the one, there was supplied an element of continual inspiration by the genius and fervour of the other. Keeping higher influences out of sight, the Wesleyan Hymn-book is to the Wesleyan Connexion very much what the soul is to the body; and although John Wesley himself and many others contributed, the collection owes its distinctive charm to that triumphant spirit who poured forth the “good matter” of the gospel in strains which often remind us of the harp of Pindar.

“ Those hymns are sung now in collieries and copper mines. How many has their heavenly music strengthened to meet death in the dark coal-pit; on how many dying hearts have they come back, as from a mother's lips, on the battle-field ; beside how many death-beds have they been chanted by trembling voices, and listened to with joy unspeakable; how many have they supplied with prayer and praise, from the first thrill

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of spiritual fear to the last rapture of heavenly hope! They echo along the Cornish moors, as the corpse of the Christian miner is borne to his last resting-place; they cheer with heavenly messages the hard bondage of slavery; they have been the first words of thanksgiving on the lips of the liberated negro; they have given courage to brave men, and patience to suffering women ; they have been a liturgy engraven on the hearts of the poor; they have borne the name of Jesus far and wide, and have helped to write it deep on countless hearts. And England is no more without a people's hymn-book."*

CHARLES WESLEY was born at Epworth, December 18, 1708, and died at London, March 29, 1788.

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The Day of Judgment.
Stand the omnipotent decree :

Jehovah's will be done!
Nature's end we wait to see,

And hear her final groan:
Let this earth dissolve, and blend

In death the wicked and the just;
Let those ponderous orbs descend,

And grind us into dust.
Rests secure the righteous man!

At his Redeemer's beck,
Sure to emerge, and rise again,

And mount above the wreck ;
Lo! the heavenly spirit towers,

Like flame, o'er nature's funeral pyre,
Triumphs in immortal powers,

And claps his wings of fire !
Nothing bath the just to lose,

By worlds on worlds destroy'd; “The Voice of Christian Life in Song,” by the Author of “ Tales and Sketches of Christian Life.” (P. 264.) A volume of exquisite taste and delightful instruction,


Far beneath his feet he views,

With smiles, the flaming void: Sees the universe renew'd,

The grand millennial reign begun; Shouts, with all the sons of God,

Around the eternal throne! Resting in this glorions hope

To be at last restored, Yield we now our bodies up

To earthquake, plague, or sword: Listening for the call divine,

The latest trumpet of the seven,
Soon our soul and dust shall join,

And both fly up to licaven.

WUrestling Jacob.

Come, O thou Traveller unknown,

Whom still I hold, but cannot see !
My company before is gone,

And I am left alone with Thee :
With Thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day.
I need not tell Thee who I am,

My misery and sin declare ;
Thyself hast call’d me by my name,

Look on my hands, and read it there:
But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou?
Tell me Thy name, and tell me now.
In vain Thou strugglest to get free,

I never will unloose my hold !
Art Thou the Man that died for me?

The secret of Thy love unfold:
Wrestling, I will not let Thce go,
Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know.
Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal

Thy new, unutterable Name ? Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell :

To know it now, resolved I am:

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Wither'd my nature's strength, from thee

My soul its life and succour brings ;
My help is all laid up above;
Thy Nature and Thy Name is Love.

Contented now upon my thigh

I halt, till life's short journey end ;
All helplessness, all weakness, I

On Thee alone for strength depend ;
Nor have I power from Thee to move ;
Thy Nature and thy Name is Love.

Lame as I am, I take the prey ;

Hell, earth, and sin with ease o'ercome ;
I leap for joy, pursue my way,

And as a bounding hart fly home;
Through all eternity to prove
Thy Nature and thy Name is Love.

For the New Year.

Come, let us anew
Our journey pursue,

Roll round with the year,
And never stand still till the Master appear.

His adorable will
Let us gladly fulfil,

And our talents improve,
By the patience of hope, and the labour to love.

Our life is a dream ;
Our time, as a stream,

Gildes swiftly away ;
And the fugitive moment refuses to stay.

The arrow is flown;
The moment is gone ;

The millennial year
Rushes on to our view, and eternity 's here.

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