Wesley Corpus

Then, according to thy word, Salvation is reveal'd; With thy glorious knowledge, Lord, The new-made earth is fill'd: Then we sound the mystery, The depths and heights of Godhead prove, Swallow'd up in mercy's sea, For ever lost in love. Hymn XII. For the Conversion of the French. Supreme, immortal potentate, Whose will omnipotent is fate, Who on thy lofty throne Dost with unrivall'd glory sit, Till earth, and heaven, and hell submit, And bow to thee alone: Hear us, in this our evil day, Against the treacherous nation pray, Which by pernicious wiles Conspires our country to o'erthrow, And with the wisdom from below The Christian world embroils. Page 18 A nation whom no oaths can bind, The false corrupters of mankind, The slaves of every lust, Despiteful, insolent, and proud, Haters of the redeeming God, And murtherers of the just. Fraught with the policy of Rome, By the old felon led, they come To scatter, steal, and slay; Brethren and countrymen divide, While with gigantic steps they stride To universal sway. Arise, O Lord of hosts, arise, Open the drowsy nation's eyes, To see the threatened blow; Europe's unconscious states alarm, In strict confederacy to arm Against the common foe. O let thy jealousy awake, Into thy hand the matter take, That all thy hand may see; Which casts the proud and mighty down, Which doth the weak, and humble crown With more than victory. Compel triumphant Gallia's pride To own that God is on our side, Who nothing fear but God: Nor can their plots, or arms succeed, While in our Saviour's steps we tread, And glory in his blood. The wretches, Lord, who thee blaspheme, O let thy blood be heard for them, Into the furnace cast; So shall the infidels return, Look upon thee they pierc'd, and mourn, And 'scape the fire at last. Page 19 Hymn XIII. For Her Majesty. Jesus, with complaisance see, Her our faith presents to thee; Her, the choicest gift of heaven, To our favor'd monarch given. Giv'n, his joys and griefs to share, Ev'ry toil, and ev'ry care; Born to soften his distress, Born t' insure his happiness. Her thou hast on all bestow'd, Lovely minister of good; Her, in our flagitious days, Beautifi'd with every grace. Virtuous, wise, without pretence, Meek as lamb-like innocence; Rival of the saints above, Object of a nation's love.