Wesley Corpus

Page 78 Our joy with sorrow mixt we find, The widow'd friends he left behind, And innocently grieve. 2101 Stript of her choicest blessing here, Nature drops a blameless tear, From all impatience kept: Calm we bewail our friend remov'd, As Jesus mourn'd for his belov'd; He died; and Jesus wept! Our loss we solemnly deplore, Not like men who hope no more Their ravish'd friend to see, Sure to o'ertake his parted soul, In grief, in death, our hope is full Of immortality. Superior to ourselves we rise, Struggle after to the skies, And antedate the day, When coming in the clouds we shall The judge of quick and dead with all His glorious saints survey. Amidst that bright ethereal train We shall find our friend again, Distinguish'd in the throng, Our spirits shall his spirit know, And sing with all we lov'd below The Lamb's eternal song. 101Ori., "5." Next stanzas: ori., "6-8", respectively (error occurs in both editions). Page 79 Desiring Death. Hymn XV. On the Death of Thomas Beard, who was Imprest for a Soldier, and Died in the Hospital at Newcastle.102 Soldier of Christ, adieu! Thy conflicts here are past, Thy Lord hath brought thee thro', And giv'n the crown at last: Rejoice to wear the glorious prize, Rejoice with God in paradise. There all thy sufferings cease, There all thy griefs are o'er, The pris'ner is at peace, The mourner weeps no more; From man's oppressive tyranny Thou liv'st, thou liv'st forever free. Torn from thy friends below In banishment severe, A man of strife, and woe, No more thou wandrest here, Join'd to thy better friends above, At rest in thy Redeemer's love. No longer now constrain'd With human fiends to dwell, To see their evil pain'd, Their blasphemies to feel: Angels and saints thy comrades are, And all adore the Saviour there. 102Thomas Beard (d. 1744) was one of John Wesley's earliest lay preachers. Page 80 Thou canst not there bemoan Thy friends or country's loss, Thro' sore oppression groan, Or faint beneath the cross, The joy hath swallow'd up the pain, And death is thy eternal gain. What hath their malice done Who hurried hence thy soul? When half thy race was run, They push'd thee to the goal, Sent to the souls supremely blest, And drove thee to thy earlier rest!