Hymns of the Church Militant

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Carter, 1865 - 640 pàgines
 

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Pàgina 480 - He that is down needs fear no fall; He that is low, no pride. He that is humble, ever shall Have God to be his guide.
Pàgina 305 - While life's dark maze I tread, And griefs around me spread, Be thou my Guide; Bid darkness turn to day, Wipe sorrow's tears away, Nor let me ever stray From thee aside.
Pàgina 415 - Are there no foes for me to face ? Must I not stem the flood ? Is this vile world a friend to grace, To help me on to God ? 4 Sure I must fight, if I would reign ; Increase my courage, Lord ! I'1l bear the toil, endure the pain, Supported by thy word.
Pàgina 332 - Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try ; Prayer, the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high. Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice Returning from his ways ; While Angels in their songs rejoice, And cry, Behold, he prays!
Pàgina 32 - See ! the streams of living waters, Springing from eternal love, Well supply thy sons and daughters, And all fear of want remove : Who can faint, while such a river Ever flows their thirst to assuage ? — Grace, which, like the Lord, the Giver, Never fails from age to age.
Pàgina 304 - MY faith looks up to thee, Thou Lamb of Calvary, Saviour divine : Now hear me while I pray ; Take all my guilt away ; O let me from this day Be wholly thine.
Pàgina 135 - My faith would lay her hand On that dear head of thine, While like a penitent I stand, And there confess my sin. 4 My soul looks back to see The burdens thou didst bear, When hanging on th' accursed tree ; And hopes her guilt was there.
Pàgina 90 - SWEET is the work, my God, my King, To praise thy name, give thanks and sing ; To show thy love by morning light, And talk of all thy truth at night.
Pàgina 84 - JESUS shall reign where'er the sun Does his successive journeys run ; His kingdom stretch from shore to shore, Till moons shall wax and wane no more.
Pàgina 581 - FRIEND after friend departs : Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts, That finds not here an end : Were this frail world our final rest, Living or dying, none were blest.

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