Than combs of honey sweeter is
Thy favour to enjoy;
In life, in death, no joy than this
Will last without alloy.
* * * * *
Angelic throngs unnumbered,
As dawn’s bright drops of dew,
Present their crowns before Him
With praises ever new;
But saints and angels blending
Their songs above the sun,
Can ne’er express the glories
Of God with man made one.
* * * * *
Direct unto my God,
With speed, my cry ascend;
Present to Him this urgent plea:—
“In mercy, Lord, attend!
Fulfil thy gracious word,
To bring me to thy rest;
In Salem soon my place prepare,
And make me ever blest!”
Down in a vale of tears,
Where dwelt my Christ I mourn,
And in the conflict with my foes,
My tender heart is torn;
O heal each bleeding wound,
With thy life-giving tree;
In Salem, Lord, above the strife,
A place prepare for me!”
TRANSLATIONS FROM MISCELLANEOUS WELSH HYMNS.
Had I but the wings of a dove,
To regions afar I’d repair,
To Nebo’s high summit would rove,
And look on a country more fair;
My eyes gazing over the flood,
I’d spend the remainder of life
Beholding the Saviour so good,
Who for sinners expired in strife.
* * * * *