Here's my claim, and here alone;
None a Savior more can need.
Deeds of righteousness I've none :
No, not one good work to plead.
Not a glimpfe of hope for me;
Only in Gethsemane.

131. L. M.

NOW

WATTS'S P.

The Sufferings of Chrift.

OW let our mournful fongs record
The dying forrows of our Lord,

When he complain'd in tears and blood,
As one forfaken of his God.

The Jews beheld him thus forlorn,

And fhook their heads, and laugh'd in scorn; "He refcu'd others from the grave,

"Now let him try himself to fave.

"This is the man who did pretend "God was his father and his friend'; "If God the blessed lov'd him so,

Why doth he fail to help him now ?"

Barbarous people! cruel priefts!
How they flood round like favage beafts;
Like lions gaping to devour,

When God had left him in their pow'r.

They wound his head, his hands, his feet,
'Till ftreams of blood each other meet;
By lot his garments they divide,
And mock the pangs in which he dy'd.

134.

L. M. STEELE.

A dying Savior.

STRETCHID of the crot, the dariot dies;

Hark! his expiring groans aríte!

See, from his hands, his feet, his side,
Runs down the facred crimson tide!

But life attends the deathful found,
And flows from every bleeding wound;
The vital fream, how free it flows
To fave and cleanse his rebel foes!

To fuffer in the traitor's place,
To die for man, fürprifing grace!
Yet pafs rebellious angels by
O why for man, dear Savior, why?

And didst thou bleed, for finners bleed?
And could the fun behold the deed?
No, he withdrew his fainting ray,
And darkness veil'd the mourning day.

Can I furvey this scene of woe
Where mingling grief and wonder flow !
And yet my heart unmov'd remain, --
Infenfible to love or pain? -

Come, dearest Lord, thy pow'r impart,
To warm this cold this ftupid heart;
'Till all its pow'rs, and paffious move
In melting grief, and ardent love.

IS

135.

Chatham T.

It is finished.

'T finish'd, the Redeemer faid;

Then meekly bow'd his dying head,
Releas'd from all bis pain;

Oh how important is the word!
It shews the conquest of our Lord
Complete for helpless man.
Finish'd-the righteousness of grace;
Finith'd-the work which brought us peace;
The finner's debt is paid;

Th' accufing law cancell'd by blood;
The wrath of an offended God

Is in oblivion laid.

Who now fhall

urge a fecond claim?

The law cannot the faint condemn
Faith a release can hew;
Juftice itself his friend appears;
The prifon-house a whisper hears-
"Loose him, and let him go."
O unbelief, injurious bar,
Source of tormenting fruitless fear,
Why doft thou yet reply?
Where'er thy loud objections fall,
'Tis finifb'd still may answer all,
And filence ev'ry cry.

I

136. C. M.

WATTS'S H.

Another.

SING
He conquer'd when he fell;

my Savior's wond'rous death;

""Tis finish'd," said his dying breath,
And shook the gates of hell.

"Tis finish'd," our Immanuel cries,
The dreadful work is done :
Hence fhall his fov'reign throne arife,
His kingdom is begun.

His cross a fure foundation laid
For glory and renown,
When thro' the regions of the dead
He pafs'd to reach the crown.
Exalted at his Father's fide

Sits our victorious Lord;

To heav'n and hell his hands divide
The veng'ance or reward.*
The faints from his propitious eye

Await their fev'ral crowns,
And all the fons of darkness fly
The terror of his frowns.

137. C. M. STENNET, altered.

The Attraction of the Crofs.

ONDER-amazing fight!-I fee
Th' incarnate Son of God,

Expiring on th' accursed tree,
And welt'ring in his blood.

Behold the purple torrents run

Down from his hands and head:
The crimson tide puts out the fun;
His groans awake the dead.

The trembling earth, the darken'd sky
Proclaim the truth aloud!
And with th' amaz'd Centurion cry
"This is the Son of God."

So great, fo vait a facrifice
May well my hope revive :
If God's own Son thus bleeds and dies,
The finner fure muft live.
O that these cords of love divine,
Might draw me, Lord, to thee !
O take my heart, may it be thine-
Thine may it ever be.

138. L. M.

Lambeth T.

Myfery of the Crofs.

TOW willing was Jefus to die,

HT

That poor wretched finners might live!
The life, they could not take away,
How ready was Jefus to give!
They pierced his hands and his feet;
His hands and his feet he refign'd;
The pangs of his body were great,
But greater the pangs of his mind.
That wrath would have kindl'd a hell.
Of never abating despair

In millions of creatures, which fell
On Jefus, and spent itself there.
Divinity burft in a blaze

Of vengeance on Jefus our Head:
Divinity's in-dwelling rays

1

Suftain'd him, till nature was dead.