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The Book of Praise.
The Bride repeats the call ; By high thanksgiving, lowly prayer, By days of rest, and fostering care, By holy rites, that all may share ;
She whispers, Come ! to all.
Let him who hears say, Come ! If thou hast been sin's wretched slave; If thou art risen from that grave ; Thy sleeping brethren seek to save,
And call the wanderers home.
And let all come, who thirst! Freely for every child of woe The streams of living waters flow; And whosoever will, may go
Where healing fountains burst.
There drink and be at rest; On Him who died for thee believe ; The Spirit's quickening grace receive ; No more the God who seeks thee grieve ;
Be holy, and be blest!
Joseph Anstice. [1836.]
With tearful eyes I look around ;
Life seems a dark and stormy sea ; Yet midst the gloom I hear a sound,
A heavenly whisper, Come to Me !
It tells me of a place of rest;
It tells me where my soul may flee : Oh ! to the weary, faint, opprest,
How sweet the bidding, Come to Me !