Wesley Corpus

He spoke the language of his heart. Who always lib'ral things devis'd, By lib'ral things he firmly stood, Sincerely lov'd his friends and priz'd, Their burthens bore, and sought their good: But chiefly those to Jesus dear, Who travell'd to that land of rest; As brethren intimately near, He cherish'd in his gen'rous breast. A man of passions like to ours, For years he groan'd beneath his load, And wrestl'd with the adverse pow'rs, And look'd to the atoning blood! The blood which once his pardon bought, Did here the contrite sinner save; And all his faults are now forgot, Are buried in his Saviour's grave. Part II. On earth he drank the deepest cup Of sharp, but consecrated pain, And fill'd his mournful measure up, And suffer'd with his Lord to reign; Meekly the sudden call obey'd, His willing spirit to resign, And only for his Saviour stay'd, To finish his own work divine. The souls whom most he priz'd below, The dearest partners of his heart, Free, and detatch'd, he let them go; Resign'd, and ready to depart: 'Tis all his gasping soul's desire, To find his place prepar'd above; And keep, with that enraptur'd quire, A sabbath of eternal love. The pray'r is heard, and sav'd at last, He drops the gross, corporeal clay, The dreary, doleful vale is past, And opens into glorious day; Past are his days to feel and mourn, Accomplish'd is his warfare here, His Father wills him to return,