A Psalm of Thanksgiving to be Sung by the Children of Christ's-Hospital, on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday in Easter-Week, according to Antient Custom, for their Founders and Benefactors, 1706. Composed by Mr Barrett ... The Words by S. C. A. M. [i.e. Samuel Cobb] |
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 | A Psalm of Thanksgiving |  |
A PSALM of Thanksgiving to be Sung by the Children of Christ's-Hospital, on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday in Easter-Week, according to Antient Custom, for their Founders and Benefactors, 1706.
The following poems are scored for music in the source texts. No attempt has been made to reconstruct the metrical lines. Variations for different voices have been ignored. Repetition marks have been ignored.
Verse 1.
The Morning's up, the Sun prepares to run his nimble RaceThe Morning's up, the Sun prepares to run his nimble Race, nimble Race; th'awaken'd Light has chas'd away the sluggish Night, and scatter'd all our gloomy Cares. Arise my Soul! Arise, soft Ease forsake; cast off th'alluring Slumber and Awake; Heav'n-ward direct thy soaring Wing: Learn from the Lark to mount and sing, The buried Man is up before, learn from the Dead to sleep no more, But view thy Sav'our with an inward Eye, and then, in holy Transports die.
CHORUS.
Let ev'ry Tongue its Silence break for him who made the Dumb to speak; from Pole to Pole in lofty Lays begin, and thunder out Messiah's Praise.
Verse 2.
Silence, ye Winds, and cease to blow! Th'Almighty Breath of God's stupendious Voice Command, the drowsy Dust to rise from op'ning Tombs, and Graves below. What Man is that, whose previous stay, Begins the wondrous Resurrection-day? See round his Head the livid Trace Of the the rude Thorn's unkind embrace? Was ever Treachery, like This? Sure Judas taught it how to Kiss. To Doubt strikes deeper than the Thorn could do, And makes his old Wounds bleed anew.
Verse 3.
True Son of God! Eternal Light, Beam'd from the Glory of Thy Father's Throne! Thee trembling Hell is forc'd to own, Triumphet o'er the Realms of Night. How smil'd th'Apostate, when he sayd, The Mystick River from Thy wounded side! How the Devouring Lyon stalk'd! With what insulting Pace he walk'd! Till waken'd from his Downy Sleep, The Holy Lamb redeem'd the Sheep. Death mourn'd to see his own sad Doom so nigh, Condemn'd, by his own Dart, to dye.
Verse 4.
First Fruits of Those who shall appear. At Thy Grand second Coming! When the Just Shall Bloom from the enliven'd Dust. Like Roses in the Springing Year. While raging Swords, untaught to scare, New Orphans make for Thy peculiar Care: While furious War pours out a Sea of Blood, preserve Thy Family! Lift up like Noah's floating Ark. Above the Flood, our slender Bark. Thou canst the Waves command, and calm the Minds Of Tyrants, rougher than the Winds.
Verse 5.
Ambitious Kings may raise on high new Monuments to their Vain-glorious Pride; And in the Clouds their Babel hide, Nor dream the Thunderer's so nigh. Sure is his Fate, tho' long his Reign, Who founds his Bloody Empire on the Slain. Our Edward took a Wiser Choice, To be more Great with Lesser Noise: Thus Charles his Peaceful Steps persu'd With Bounty, noble as his Blood. Thus you, kind Sirs, your Generous Love display, And follow Kings the truest way.
Verse 6.
While
ANNA's Beams with swifter pace, Outstrip the lingring Sun, Profusely bright
She scatters a Meridian Light, Where He concludes his Western Race.
If Spain opprest, begins to Groan. She hears, and makes their Sufferings all Her Own.
Kindly she spreads Her Royal Wings, O'er Austrian Emperors and Kings;
With Fleets and Armies She Commands, The spacious Seas and distant Lands.
To Heav'n Her Conquests reach, whose Gates prepare To open, when she Storms with PRAYER.
| A Psalm of Thanksgiving | |