6 While at his table sits the King,
He loves to see us smile and sing;
Our graces are our best perfume,
And breathe like spikenard round the room.]
7 As myrrh new bleeding from the tree,
Such is a dying Christ to me;
And while he makes my soul his guest,
My bosom, Lord, shall be thy rest.
8 [No beams of cedar or of fir
Can with thy courts on earth compare;
And here we wait until thy love
Raise us to nobler seats above.]
Hymn 1:67.
Seeking the pastures of Christ the Shepherd, Cant. 1.7.
1 Thou whom my soul admires above
All earthly joy, and earthly love,
Tell me, dear shepherd, let me know,
Where doth thy sweetest pasture grow?
2 Where is the shadow of that rock
That from the son defends thy flock?
Fain would I feed among thy sheep,
Among them rest, among them sleep.
3 Why should thy bride appear like one
That turns aside to paths unknown?
My constant feet would never rove,
Would never seek another love.
4 [The footsteps of thy flock I see;
Thy sweetest pastures here they be;
A wondrous feast thy love prepares,
Bought with thy wounds, and groans, and tears.
5 His dearest flesh he makes my food,
And bids me drink his richest blood;
Here to these hills my soul will come,
To my beloved lead me home.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64