Wesley Corpus

Speak gracious Lord, my sickness cure, Make my infected nature pure; Peace, righteousness and joy impart, And pour thyself into my heart. Hymn of Thanksgiving to the Father.9 Thee, O my God and King, My Father, thee I sing! Hear well-pleas'd the joyous sound, Praise from earth and heav'n receive; Lost, I now in Christ am found, Dead, by faith in Christ I live. Father, behold thy son, In Christ I am thy own. Stranger long to thee and rest, See the prodigal is come: Open wide thine arms and breast, Take the weary wand'rer home. Thine eye observ'd from far, Thy pity look'd me near: Me thy bowels yearn'd to see, Me thy mercy ran to find, Empty, poor, and void of thee, Hungry, sick, and faint, and blind. Thou on my neck didst fall, Thy kiss forgave me all: Page 13 10Source: George Herbert. First appeared in HSP (1739), 125-26. Still the gracious words I hear, Words that made the Saviour mine, Haste, for him the robe prepare, His be righteousness divine. Thee then, my God, and King, My Father, thee I sing! Hear well pleas'd the joyous sound Praise from earth and heav'n receive; Lost, I now in Christ am found, Dead, by faith in Christ I live. The Invitation. From Herbert.10 Come hither all, whose grov'ling taste Enslaves your souls, and lay them waste; Save your expence, and mend your cheer: Here God himself's prepar'd and drest, Himself vouchsafes to be your feast, In whom alone all dainties are. Come hither all, whom tempting wine Bows to your father Belial's shrine, Sin all your boast, and sense your God: Weep now for what you've drank amiss, And lose your taste for sensual bliss, By drinking here your Saviour's blood. Come hither all, whom searching pain, Whom conscience's loud cries arraign, Producing all your sins to view: Taste; and dismiss your guilty fear, O taste and see that God is here To heal your souls and sin subdue. Page 14 11Source: Samuel Wesley Sr. First appeared in CPH (1737), 46-47. Appears here via HSP (1739), 131-32. Come hither all, whom careless joy Does with alluring force destroy, While loose ye range beyond your bounds: True joy is here, that passes quite, And all your transient mean delight Drowns, as a flood, the lower grounds.