HYMN XXXI. FOR THE OUTCASTS OF ISRAEL.
Shepherd of souls, with pitying eye
The thousand of our Israel see:
To Thee in their behalf we fly,
Ourselves but newly found in Thee.
See where o'er desert wastes they err,
And neither food nor feeder have,
Nor fold, nor place of refuge near,
For no man cares their souls to save.
Wild as the untaught Indian's brood,
The Christian savages remain,
Strangers and enemies to God,
They make Thee spend Thy blood in vain.
Thy people, Lord, are sold for nought,
Nor know they their Redeemer nigh:
They perish whom Thyself hast bought,
Their souls for lack of knowledge die.
The pit its mouth hath open'd wide,
To swallow up its careless prey:
Why should they die, when Thou hast died,
Hast died to bear their sins away?
Why should the foe Thy purchase seize?
Remember, Lord, Thy dying groans:
The meed of all Thy sufferings these,
O claim them for Thy ransom'd ones!
Extend to these Thy pardoning grace,
To these be Thy salvation show'd,
O add them to Thy chosen race!
O sprinkle all their hearts with blood!
Still let the publicans draw near,
Open the door of faith and heaven,
And grant their hearts Thy word to hear,
And witness all their sins forgiven.
