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The Book of Praise.
Are we not tending upward too,
As fast as time can move ? Nor would we wish the hours more slow
To keep us from our love.
Why should we tremble to convey
Their bodies to the tomb ? There the dear flesh of Jesus lay,
And left a long perfume.
The graves of all His saints He bless'd,
And softened every bed : Where should the dying members rest,
But with the dying Head ?
Thence He arose, ascending high, And showed our feet the way ;
Up to the Lord our flesh shall fly At the great rising day.
Then let the last loud trumpet sound,
And bid our kindred rise : Awake, ye nations under ground !
Ye saints, ascend the skies !
Isaac Watts. I
Spirit! leave thine house of clay I
Lingering dust, resign thy breath ! Spirit! cast thy chains away !
Dust, be thou dissolved in death ! Thus the Almighty Saviour speaks,
While the faithful Christian dies; Thus the bonds of life he breaks,
And the ransomed captive flies.