Classic Poem

HYMN. VI.

Descend, O king of saints, descend:
By thy free spirit's vital heat
Fresh joys to every soul extend,
That at thy table finds a seat.

O prince of peace, bless thou this board
With those sweet smiles which angels chear.
O give us peace; and tell us, Lord,
We're pardon'd, and accepted here.

As thou our hungry souls hast fed,
Our thirsty souls sustain'd with wine;
Nourish us with this heav'nly bread,
And with this sacred blood of thine.

Teach us to wash our garments clean
In the pure fountain of thy blood;
Lord, purge our souls from every stain
I'th' streams of that all-cleansing flood.

Each sin of ours has been a thorn,
A cruel nail, a whip, a spear;
By these thy sacred flesh was torn,
These did thy soul with horror tear.

Yet every wound of thine does yield
A balsam for a contrite heart,
Which, on the painful sore distil'd,
Heals and allays the tort'ring smart.

Amazing love! 'tis infinite!
No thoughts its endless depth can sound;
It heaven's high arch exceeds for height,
And for extent, the world's vast round.

Lord, to advance thy praises here,
Increase our light, inlarge our love;
And by thy grace our souls prepare
For better songs and tunes above.

You who our Lord's great banquet share,
And welcome places find
His table round, his praises sound
With well-tun'd voice and mind.

Remember all his acts of love,
His torments every one:
Whom angels fear'd, him mortals jeer'd,
Blasphem'd and spat upon.

See's head all torn with thorns, his face
(Divinely bright before)
Now mar'd more than the sons of men,
Reaking with sweat and gore.

See in his hands and feet the nails
Piercing the tender veins:
See how each wound the blushing ground
With precious tincture stains.

See his side spout a stream of blood
And water thro' the wound;
A stream wherein we're wash'd from sin,
And all our guilt is drown'd.

But, oh! what terrors wrack'd his soul
In that last agony,
When (ere he dy'd) my God , he cry'd,
Why hast forsaken me!

Thus groan'd and dy'd the son of God,
That we might ever live
There, where all bliss our souls can wish,
Or can contain, he'll give.

Mean while the myst'ries of his grace
His table here displays;
O how his love our souls should move,
And tongues to sing his praise!