And let a beam of love divine, 6 Leaning on thy dear, faithful breast, And in thy soft embraces lose "The bitterness of death." HYMN DCCCCXXVIII. The Backslider. Jer. xxxi. 18—20. 1 RETURN, O wanderer, return, W. B. C. And seek an injured Father's face; And seek a Father's melting heart; Whose pitying eyes thy grief discern, Whose hand can heal thine inward smart. 3 Return, O wanderer, return, He heard thy deep, repentant sigh; 4 Return, O wanderer, return, Thy Saviour bids thy spirit live; And wipe away the falling tear; 6 Return, O wanderer, return, 1 HYMN DCCCCXXIX. The Transfiguration. Luke ix. 28–31. ON W. B. C. N Tabor's top the Saviour stands, To Calvary he turns his eyes; But soon the gale of sorrow blows. 5 But when we climb the mount of prayer, 60 that on yonder heavenly hills, And peace, like softest dew, distils— HYMN DCCCCXXX. Dying Jacob. Gen. xlviii. 21. 1 THA W. B. C. HAT solemn hour will surely come, When in the shadows of the tomb, 2 The cup of trembling in my hand, 3 Amid the anguish and the strife, Look gently down, great Source of life, 4 Serene, like Jacob, I would die, 5 My dearest comforts I could leave, Would wipe the tears of those that grieve, 6 My trembling lips-if thou art nigh, A HYMN DCCCCXXXI. An Evening Hymn. Job viii. 9. NOTHER fleeting day is gone, W. B. C. Slow o'er the west the shadows rise; Swift the soft, stealing hours have flown, And night's dark mantle veils the skies. 2 Another fleeting day is gone, Swept from the records of the year; And still with each successive sun, Life's fading visions disappear. 3 Another fleeting day is gone, To tell thy secrets, O my soul; 4 Another fleeting day is gone, 5 Another fleeting day is gone, And soon a fairer day shall rise; A day, whose never-setting sun, Shall pour his light o'er cloudless skies. 6 Another fleeting day is gone, In solemn silence rest, my soul; HYMN DCCCCXXXII. Faith amid Famine. Hab. iii. 17, 18. 1 W W. B. C. THEN dreadful o'er a mourning land, And earth's unnumber'd springs are dry. 2 The blighted corn expects in vain, 3 No grass, no herb, adorns the ground, 4 Creation droops on every hand, 5 Yet should the Spring withhold her showers, 6 My soul, in this tremendous hour, |