The Prophets are thy care,
The Law is at thy breast,
The Gospel take with grateful prayer,
And Christ shall give thee rest.
No more his love withstand,
No more his spirit grieve,
Thrust in his wounded side thy hand,
And tremble and believe.
FOREIGN MISSIONS.
Up, at the Gospel's glorious call!
Country and kindred what are they?
Rend from thy heart, these charmers, all,
Christ needs thy service, hence away.
Tho' free the parting tear may rise,
Tho' high may roll the boisterous wave,
Go, find thy home 'neath foreign skies,
And shroud thee in a stranger's grave.
Perchance, the Hindoo's languid child,
The infant at the Burman's knee,
The shiverer in the artic wild,
Shall bless the Eternal Sire for thee.
And what hath Earth compar'd to this?
Knows she of wealth or joy like thine?
The ransom'd heathens' heavenly bliss,
The plaudit of the Judge divine!
