Preparation for Death (1772)
| Author | Charles Wesley |
|---|---|
| Type | hymn-collection |
| Year | 1772 |
| Passage ID | cw-duke-preparation-for-death-1772-015 |
| Words | 375 |
| Source | https://divinity.duke.edu/initiatives/wesleyan-methodist/... |
Now apply the blood that cleanses Every stain, once again Blot out my offences. Page 35 Bleeding love I long to feel it! Let the smart break my heart, Break my heart, and heal it. Let the sense of sin forgiven, Make my soul throughly whole, Be my taste of heaven. Then the earnest I inherit; To its rest, in thy breast, Then receive my spirit. Hymn XXXIII. I know, and feel it cannot be That I the holy God should see, Or stand before his sight, Unless I after him awake, His nature here on earth partake, And in his love delight. But he my flesh and blood assum'd, That I, to death eternal doom'd, His Spirit might retrieve, The favour of my Lord regain, Substantial holiness obtain, And in his image live. Come then, great God, thyself reveal, With extasies unspeakable Thy pard'ning love impart; Thy sanctifying blood apply, To purge my nature's deepest die, And purify my heart. My heart, which then to thee I give, To earthly things no more shall cleave, Page 36 Or seek its rest below, No more to vile affections yield, But with th' indwelling Spirit fill'd, My only Jesus know. Soon as of thee possess'd I am, The leopard sinks into a lamb, And with thy nature blest, Thy lowly, meek, unspotted mind, Rest to my hallow'd soul I find, The true eternal rest. Then, then, mature for my reward, Fit to behold my glorious Lord With all thy white-rob'd choir, (My faith and holiness fill'd up) I reach the sacred mountain's top, And in thy sight expire! Hymn XXXIV. Who shall that rapt'rous sight explain, Which gracious souls departing gain, The crown of all their grace? Life cannot bear the bliss divine: Then let me, Lord, my soul resign, To see thy heavenly face. This earth, I know, is not my home, Thro' which a banish'd man I roam, A weary pilgrim I, Till, at thy word, my wandrings cease, And, mounting from the wilderness, I to thy bosom fly. O that I on the wings of love, The wings of thy celestial dove, Page 37 Could from the valley soar; Escape to my Redeemer's breast, Recover there my endless rest, And never wander more!