Songs XV and XVIII
A Song of Praise for the Gospel
Blest be my God, that I was born
To hear the Joyful Sound;
That I was born to be Baptiz'd,
And bred on Holy Ground;
That I was bred where God appears,
In Tokens of his Grace:
The Lines are fallen unto me
In a most pleasant Place.
I might have been a Pagan bred,
Or else a Veiled Jew,
Or cheated with an Alcoran
Among the Turkish Crew.
Dumb Pictures might have been my Books,
Dark Language my Devotion;
And so I might with blinded Eyes
Have drunk a deadly Portion.
So in a Dungeon dark as Night,
I might have spent my Days:
But thou hast sent me Gospel Light,
To thine Eternal Praise.
The Sun which rose up in the East,
And drove their Shades away,
His Healing Wings have reach'd the West,
And turn'd our Night to Day,
England at first an Egypt was;
Since that, proud Babel's slave;
At last a Canaan it became,
And then my Birth it gave.
Blest be my God, that I have slept
The dismal Night away,
Being kept in Providence's Womb,
To England's brightest Day.
Blest be my God for what I see,
My God for what I hear:
I hear such blessed News from Heaven,
Nor Earth nor Hell I fear.
I hear, my Lord for me was Born,
My Lord for me did Die;
My Lord for me did rise again,
And did ascend on High.
On High he stands to plead my Cause,
And will return again,
And set me on a Glorious Throne,
That I with Him may reign.
Glory to God the Father be,
Glory to God the Son,
Glory to God the Holy Ghost,
Glory to God alone.
A Song of Praise for the Lord's Supper
O Praise the Lord! Praise him, praise him,
Sing Praises to his Name:
O, all ye Saints of Heaven and Earth,
Extol and laud the same.
Who spared not his only Son,
But gave him up for all;
And made him drink the Cup of Wrath,
The Wormwood and the Gall.
Frail Nature shrunk, and did request
That bitter Cup might pass;
But he must drink it off; and this
The Father's Pleasure was.
Lo, then I come to do thy Will,
His blessed Son reply'd;
Yielding himself to God and Man,
He stretch'd his Arms and dy'd.
He dy'd indeed, but rose again,
And did ascend on High,
That we poor Sinners, Lost and Dead,
Might live Eternally.
Good Lord! How many Souls in Hell
Doth Vengeance vex and tear1
Were it not for a Dying Christ,
Our dwelling had been there.
His Blood was shed instead of ours,
His Soul our Hell did bear:
He took our Sin, gave us himself:
What an Exchange is here!
Whatever is not Hell it self,
For us it is too good:
But must we eat the Flesh of Christ?
And must we drink his Blood?
His Flesh is Heavenly Food indeed,
His Blood is Drink Divine;
His Graces drop; like Honey falls,
His Comforts taste like Wine.
Sweet Christ! Thou hast refresh'd our Souls
With thine abundant Grace;
For which we magnify thy Name,
Longing to see thy Face.
When shall our Souls mount up to Thee,
Most Holy, Just and True;
To eat that Bread, and drink that Wine,
Which is for ever New?