Wesley Corpus

Page 24 In sure and stedfast hope again to find The dear-lov'd relatives he left behind, Children and wife he back to Jesus gave, His Lord, he knew, could to the utmost save: Himself experienc'd now that utmost power, And clap'd his hands in death's triumphant hour, "Rejoice my friends," he cries, "rejoice with me, "Our dying Lord hath got the victory; "He comes! he comes! this is my bridal day, "Follow with songs of joy the breathless clay, "And shout my soul escap'd into eternal day!" A dying saint can true believers mourn? Joyful they see their friend to heaven return; His animating words their souls inspire, And bear them upwards on his car of fire: His looks, when language fails, new life impart; Heaven in his looks, and Jesus in his heart; He feels the happiness that cannot fade, With everlasting joy upon his head Starts from the flesh, and gains his native skies; Glory to God on high! the Christian dies! Dies from the world, and quits his earthly6 clod, Dies, and receives the crown by Christ bestow'd, Dies into all the life and plenitude of God! 6Ori., "earthy"; a misprint, corrected in 2nd edn. (1748). Page 25 O glorious victory of grace divine! Jesu, the great redeeming work is thine: Thy work reviv'd, as in the antient days, We now with angels and archangels praise: Thine hand unshorten'd in our sight appears, With whom a day is as a thousand years; We see and magnify thy mercy's power That call'd the sinner at th' eleventh hour, Cut short the work, and suddenly renew'd, Sprinkled and wash'd him in thy cleansing blood, And fill'd in one short year with all the life of God. Receiv'd on earth into thy people's rest, He now is numbred with the glorious blest, Call'd to the joys that saints and angels prove, Triumphant with the first-born church above, He rests within thy arms of everlasting love. Ye fools that throng the smooth infernal road, And scorn the wisdom of the sons of God, Censure whom angels, saints, and God commend, Madness account his life, and base his end; Tread on his ashes still, ye ruffians tread, By venal lies defame the sacred dead, With Satan still your feeble malice shew, The last poor efforts of a vanquish'd foe,