HYMN XLV.
[O death, this is thy dreaded sting]
O death, this is thy dreaded sting,
This is thy victory, O grave!
Grace doth not yet forgiveness bring,
Or Christ exert His power to save.
Horror of horrors! must I die
With all my sins upon my soul?
Wilt Thou not first Thy blood apply,
And speak my wounded spirit whole?
O for Thy truth and mercy sake
Remove the' insufferable load,
Cast all my sins behind Thy back,
And show Thyself a pardoning God.
What profit is there in my death,
What glory to the grace Divine,
If sad I gasp my latest breath,
And hopeless die—without a sign?
Will it not all Thy children shame,
And harden more the heathen's heart,
If left at my last hour I am
In dread and darkness to depart?
Before his strong arrest I feel
Close-grappling with my mortal foe,
Eternal Life, Thyself reveal,
And break his last tremendous blow.
Thy hoary, helpless servant hear,
Who trembles at Thy threatening word,
Asunder sawn by harrowing fear,
The terrors of an angry Lord.
Hast Thou not many a soul relieved
Who all their days in bondage pass'd,
The prisoners in Thine arms received,
And scarcely saved, yet saved at last?
That saving power extend to me,
Avenger of Thy people's wrong,
And set the lawful captive free,
And teach my heart the gospel-song.
Open my mouth, almighty Love,
In death to testify Thy grace,
And while my quivering lips can move
My quivering lips shall speak Thy praise;
Shall tell the drooping sons of men
To every soul Thy bowels sound;
None ever ask'd Thy grace in vain,
Or seeking died before he found.
Thus will I, Lord, my seal set to:
In publishing the sinner's Friend
So good to save, so strong, so true,
My last triumphant moments spend.
Till entering Thy celestial joy,
I join the' acclaiming host above,
And all eternity employ
In praise of all-redeeming love.
