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    Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory Of The Coming Of The Lord

    Julia Ward Howe (1819-1910)

    Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
    he is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
    he hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword:
    his truth is marching on.
    Glory, glory, Alleluia,
    his truth is marching on.

    I have seen him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps.
    They have gilded him an altar in the evening dews and damps.
    I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.
    His day is marching on.
    Glory, glory, Alleluia,
    his day is marching on.

    He has read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
    'As ye deal with my condemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
    let the Hero born of woman crush the serpent with his heel,
    since God is marching on.'
    Glory, glory, Alleluia,
    since God is marching on.

    He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
    he is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat;
    O, be swift, my soul, to answer him; be jubilant, my feet!
    Our God is marching on.
    Glory, glory, Alleluia,
    our God is marching on.

    In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
    with a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
    as he died to make men holy, let us live to make men free,
    while God is marching on.
    Glory, glory, Alleluia,
    while God is marching on.

    He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave;
    he is wisdom to the mighty; he is succour to the brave;
    so the world shall be his foot-stool, and the soul of time his slave:
    Our God is marching on.
    Glory, glory, Alleluia,
    our God is marching on.

    Morning Glory, Starlit Sky,

    William Hubert Vanstone (1923-1999)

    Morning glory, starlit sky,
    leaves in springtime, swallows' flight,
    autumn gales, tremendous seas,
    sounds and scents of summer night;

    soaring music, towering words,
    art's perfection, scholar's truth,
    joy supreme of human love,
    memory's treasure, grace of youth;

    open, Lord, are these, thy gifts,
    gifts of love to mind and sense;
    hidden is love's agony,
    love's endeavour, love's expense.

    Love that gives, gives evermore,
    gives with zeal, with eager hands,
    spares not, keeps not, all outpours,
    ventures all, its all expends.

    Drained is love in making full;
    bound in setting others free;
    poor in making many rich;
    weak in giving power to be.

    Therefore he who thee reveals
    hangs, O Father, on that Tree
    helpless; and the nails and thorns
    tells of what thy love must be.

    7Thou art God, no monarch thou,
    throned in easy state to reign;
    thou art God, whose arms of love
    aching, spent, the world sustain.

    Morning Has Broken

    Morning has broken
    like the first morning,
    blackbird has spoken
    like the first bird.
    Praise for the singing!
    Praise for the morning!
    Praise for them, springing
    fresh from the Word!

    Sweet the rain’s new fall
    sunlit from heaven,
    like the first dew-fall
    on the first grass.
    Praise for the sweetness
    of the wet garden,
    sprung in completeness,
    where his feet pass.

    Mine is the sunlight!
    Mine is the morning;
    born of the one light,
    Eden saw play.
    Praise with elation!
    Praise ev’ry morning!
    God’s re-creation
    of the new day!

    My Faith Looks Up To Thee

    William Bramwell Booth (1856-1929)

    My faith looks up to thee,
    My faith so small, so slow;
    It lifts its drooping eyes to thee,
    And claims the blessing now.
    Thy wondrous gift, O Lord,
    By faith it sees afar,
    Thy perfect love it claims to share;
    It doth not, cannot fear.

    My faith takes hold of thee,
    My faith so weak, so faint;
    It lifts its trembling hands to thee,
    Trembling, but violent.
    The Kingdom of thy love,
    E'en now, it takes by force,
    And waits till thou, its last resource,
    Shall seal and sanctify.

    My faith holds fast on thee,
    My faith still small, but sure;
    Its anchor holds alone to thee,
    Whose presence keeps me pure.
    And thou, all conquering Lord,
    Always to see and hear,
    By night, by day, art ever near,
    Art ever near to me.

    My Father, for another night

    Henry Williams Baker (1821-1877)

    My Father, for another night
    of quiet sleep and rest,
    for all the joy of morning light,
    thy holy name be blest.

    Now with the new-born day I give
    myself anew to thee,
    that as thou willest I may live,
    and what thou willest be.

    Whate'er I do, things great or small,
    whate'er I speak or frame,
    thy glory may I seek in all,
    do all in Jesus' name.

    My Father, for his sake, I pray,
    thy child accept and bless;
    and lead me by thy grace to-day
    in paths of righteousness.

    My God I Thank Thee, Who Hast Made

    Adelaide A Procter (Mary Berwick) 1825-1864)

    My God, I thank thee, who hast made
    The earth so bright,
    So full of splendour and of joy,
    Beauty and light;
    So many glorious things are here,
    Noble and right.

    I thank thee, Lord, that thou hast made
    Joy to abound,
    So many gentle thoughts and deeds
    Circling us round,
    That in the darkest spot of earth
    Some love is found.

    I thank thee too that often joy
    Is touched with pain,
    That shadows fall on brightest hours,
    That thorns remain,
    So that earth's bliss may be our guide,
    And not our chain.

    I thank thee, Lord, that thou hast kept
    The best in store;
    We have enough, yet not too much
    To long for more-
    A yearning for a deeper peace
    Not known before.

    I thank thee, Lord, that here our souls,
    Though amply best,
    Can never find, although they seek,
    A perfect rest,
    Nor ever shall, until they lean
    On Jesu’s breast.

    My God Loves Me

    Verse I: verses 2-5 Sandra Joan Billington (b. 1946)

    My God loves me,
    his love will never end.
    He rests within my heart,
    for my God loves me.

    His gentle hand
    he stretches over me.
    Though storm-clouds threaten the day,
    he will set me free.

    He comes to me
    in sharing bread and wine.
    He brings me life that will reach
    past the end of time.

    My God loves me,
    his faithful love endures,
    and I will live like a child
    held in love secure.

    The joys of love
    as offerings now we bring.
    The pains of love will be lost
    in the praise we sing.

    My God, How Wonderful Thou Art

    Frederick William Faber (1814-1863)

    My God, how wonderful thou art,
    thy majesty how bright,
    how beautiful thy mercy-seat,
    in depths of burning light!

    How dread are thine eternal years,
    O everlasting Lord,
    by prostrate spirits day and night
    incessantly adored!

    How beautiful, how beautiful,
    the sight of thee must be,
    thine endless wisdom, boundless power,
    and aweful purity!

    O how I fear thee, living God,
    with deepest, tenderest fears,
    and worship thee with trembling hope,
    and penitential tears!

    Yet I may love thee too, O Lord,
    almighty as thou art,
    for thou hast stooped to ask of me
    the love of my poor heart.

    No earthly father loves like thee,
    no mother, e'er so mild,
    bears and forbears as thou hast done
    with me thy sinful child.

    7O then this worse than worthless heart
    in pity deign to take,
    and make it love thee for thyself,
    and for thy glory's sake.

    8Father of Jesus, love's reward,
    what rapture will it be,
    prostrate before thy throne to lie,
    and gaze and gaze on thee!

    My Hope Is Built On Nothing Less

    Edward Mote (1797-1874)

    My hope is built on nothing less
    than Jesus' blood and righteousness;
    I dare not trust my sweetest frame,
    but wholly lean on Jesus' Name.
    On Christ, the solid rock, I stand;
    all other ground is sinking sand.

    When darkness seems to veil his face,
    I rest on his unchanging grace;
    in every high and stormy gale,
    my anchor holds within the veil.
    Chorus

    His oath, his covenant, and blood,
    support me in the whelming flood;
    when all around my soul gives way,
    he then is all my hope and stay.
    Chorus

    When the last trumpet's voice shall sound
    O may I then in him be found,
    robed in his righteousness alone,
    faultless to stand before the throne.
    Chorus

    My Jesus I love thee, I know Thou art mine

    William R Featherstone (1846-c.1873)

    My Jesus, I love Thee, I know Thou art mine;
    For Thee all the pleasures of sin I resign;
    My gracious Redeemer, my Saviour art Thou,
    If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, 'tis now.

    I love Thee because Thou hast first lovèd me,
    And purchased my pardon on Calvary's tree;
    I love Thee for wearing the thorns on Thy brow,
    If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, 'tis now.

    I will love Thee in life, I will love Thee in death,
    And praise Thee as long as Thou lendest me breath;
    And say, when the death-dew lies cold on my brow,
    If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, 'tis now.

    In mansions of glory and endless delight,
    I'll ever adore Thee in heaven so bright;
    I'll sing with the glittering crown on my brow,
    If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, 'tis now.

    My Jesus, My Saviour

    Darlene Zschech

    My Jesus, my Saviour,
    Lord, there is none like You.
    All of my days I want to praise
    The wonders of Your mighty love.
    My comfort, my shelter,
    Tower of refuge and strength,
    Let every breath, all that I am,
    Never cease to worship You.

    Shout to the Lord all the earth, let us sing
    Power and majesty, praise to the King.
    Mountains bow down
    And the seas will roar
    At the sound of Your name.
    I sing for joy at the work of Your hands.
    Forever I'll love You, forever I'll stand.
    Nothing compares to the
    Promise I have in You.

    My Life Must Be Christ's Broken Bread

    Albert W T Orsborn (1886-1967)

    My life must be Christ's broken bread,
    My love his outpoured wine,
    A cup o'erfilled, a table spread
    Beneath his name and sign,
    That other souls, refreshed and fed,
    May share his life through mine.

    My all is in the Master's hands
    For him to bless and break;
    Beyond the brook his winepress stands
    And thence my way I take,
    Resolved the whole of love's demands
    To give, for his dear sake.

    Lord, let me share that grace of thine
    Wherewith thou didst sustain
    The burden of the fruitful vine,
    The gift of buried grain.
    Who dies with thee, O Word divine,
    Shall rise and live again.

    My Lord Has Garments So Wondrous Fine

    My lord has garments so wondrous fine,
    And myrrh their textures fills;
    Its fragrance reached to this heart of mine
    With joy my being thrills.

    Refrain

    Out of the ivory palaces,
    Into a world of woe,
    Only His great eternal love
    Made my savior go.

    His life had also its sorrows sore,
    For aloes had a part;
    And when I think of the cross He bore,
    My eyes with teardrops start.

    Refrain

    His garments too were in cassia dipped,
    With healing in a touch;
    Each time my feet in some sin have slipped,
    He took me from its clutch.

    Refrain

    In garments glorious He will come,
    To open wide the door;
    And I shall enter my heav’nly home,
    To dwell forevermore.

    Refrain

    My Song Is Love Unknown

    Samuel Crossman (1624-1684NS)

    My song is love unknown,
    my Saviour's love to me,
    love to the loveless shown,
    that they might lovely be.
    O who am I, that for my sake
    my Lord should take
    frail flesh, and die?

    He came from his blest throne,
    salvation to bestow;
    but men made strange, and none
    the longed-for Christ would know.
    But O, my Friend,
    my Friend indeed,
    who at my need
    his life did spend.

    Sometimes they strew his way,
    and his sweet praises sing;
    resounding all the day
    hosannas to their King.
    Then 'Crucify!'
    is all their breath,
    and for his death
    they thirst and cry.

    Why, what hath my Lord done?
    What makes this rage and spite?
    He made the lame to run,
    he gave the blind their sight.
    Sweet injuries!
    yet they at these
    themselves displease,
    and 'gainst him rise.

    They rise, and needs will have
    my dear Lord made away;
    `a murderer they save,
    the Prince of Life they slay.
    Yet cheerful he
    to suffering goes,
    that he his foes
    from thence might free.

    In life, no house, no home
    my Lord on earth might have;
    in death, no friendly tomb
    but what a stranger gave.
    What may I say?
    Heaven was his home;
    but mine the tomb
    wherein he lay.

    7Here might I stay and sing:
    no story so divine;
    never was love, dear King,
    never was grief like thine!
    This is my Friend,
    in whose sweet praise
    I all my days
    could gladly spend.

    My Song Is Love Unknown

    Samuel Crossman (1624-1684NS)

    My song is love unknown,
    my Saviour's love to me,
    love to the loveless shown,
    that they might lovely be.
    O who am I, that for my sake
    my Lord should take
    frail flesh, and die?

    He came from his blest throne,
    salvation to bestow;
    but men made strange, and none
    the longed-for Christ would know.
    But O, my Friend,
    my Friend indeed,
    who at my need
    his life did spend.

    Sometimes they strew his way,
    and his sweet praises sing;
    resounding all the day
    hosannas to their King.
    Then 'Crucify!'
    is all their breath,
    and for his death
    they thirst and cry.

    Why, what hath my Lord done?
    What makes this rage and spite?
    He made the lame to run,
    he gave the blind their sight.
    Sweet injuries!
    yet they at these
    themselves displease,
    and 'gainst him rise.

    They rise, and needs will have
    my dear Lord made away;
    `a murderer they save,
    the Prince of Life they slay.
    Yet cheerful he
    to suffering goes,
    that he his foes
    from thence might free.

    In life, no house, no home
    my Lord on earth might have;
    in death, no friendly tomb
    but what a stranger gave.
    What may I say?
    Heaven was his home;
    but mine the tomb
    wherein he lay.

    7Here might I stay and sing:
    no story so divine;
    never was love, dear King,
    never was grief like thine!
    This is my Friend,
    in whose sweet praise
    I all my days
    could gladly spend.

    My Soul, There Is A Country

    Henry Vaughan (1622-1695)

    My soul, there is a country
    far beyond the stars,
    where stands a wingèd sentry
    all skilful in the wars.

    There above noise, and danger,
    sweet peace sits crowned with smiles,
    and One born in a manger
    commands the beauteous files.

    He is thy gracious Friend,
    and-O my soul, awake!-
    did in pure love descend,
    to die here for thy sake.

    If thou canst get but thither,
    there grows the flower of peace
    the Rose that cannot wither,
    thy fortress and thy ease.

    Leave then thy foolish ranges,
    for none can thee secure
    but one who never changes,
    thy God, thy life, thy cure.

    My Soul, There Is A Country

    Henry Vaughan (1622-1695)

    My soul, there is a country
    far beyond the stars,
    where stands a wingèd sentry
    all skilful in the wars.

    There above noise, and danger,
    sweet peace sits crowned with smiles,
    and One born in a manger
    commands the beauteous files.

    He is thy gracious Friend,
    and-O my soul, awake!-
    did in pure love descend,
    to die here for thy sake.

    If thou canst get but thither,
    there grows the flower of peace
    the Rose that cannot wither,
    thy fortress and thy ease.

    Leave then thy foolish ranges,
    for none can thee secure
    but one who never changes,
    thy God, thy life, thy cure.

    My Soul, There Is A Country

    Henry Vaughan (1622-1695)

    My soul, there is a country
    far beyond the stars,
    where stands a wingèd sentry
    all skilful in the wars.

    There above noise, and danger,
    sweet peace sits crowned with smiles,
    and One born in a manger
    commands the beauteous files.

    He is thy gracious Friend,
    and-O my soul, awake!-
    did in pure love descend,
    to die here for thy sake.

    If thou canst get but thither,
    there grows the flower of peace
    the Rose that cannot wither,
    thy fortress and thy ease.

    Leave then thy foolish ranges,
    for none can thee secure
    but one who never changes,
    thy God, thy life, thy cure.

    Nearer, My God, To Thee

    vv. 1-5 Sarah Fuller Adams (1805-1848), v. 6 Arthur Russell Tozer (1806-1874)

    Nearer, my God, to thee,
    nearer to thee!
    e'en though it be a cross
    that raiseth me,
    still all my song shall be:
    'Nearer, my God to thee,
    nearer to thee!'

    Though, like the wanderer,
    the sun gone down,
    darkness be over me,
    my rest a stone,
    yet in my dreams I'd be
    nearer, my God to thee,
    nearer to thee!

    There let the way appear
    steps unto heaven-
    all that thou sendest me
    in mercy given-
    angels to beckon me
    nearer, my God to thee,
    nearer to thee!

    Then, with my waking thoughts
    bright with thy praise,
    out of my stony griefs
    Bethel I'll raise;
    so by my woes to be
    nearer, my God to thee,
    nearer to thee!

    Or if on joyful wing
    cleaving the sky,
    sun, moon, and stars forgot,
    upwards I fly,
    still all my song shall be:
    'Nearer, my God to thee,
    nearer to thee!'

    Christ alone beareth me
    where thou dost shine;
    joint-heir he maketh me
    of the divine!
    In Christ my soul shall be
    nearest my God, th thee,
    nearest to thee.

    New Every Morning Is The Love

    John Keble (1792-1866)

    New every morning is the love
    our wakening and uprising prove;
    through sleep and darkness safely brought,
    restored to life and power and thought.

    New mercies, each returning day,
    hover around us while we pray;
    new perils past, new sins forgiven,
    new thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.

    If on our daily course our mind
    be set to hallow all we find,
    new treasures still, of countless price,
    God will provide for sacrifice.

    Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be,
    as more of heaven in each we see;
    some softening gleam of love and prayer
    shall dawn on every cross and care.

    The trivial round, the common task,
    will furnish all we need to ask,
    room to deny ourselves, a road
    to bring us daily nearer God.

    Only, O Lord, in thy dear love
    fit us for perfect rest above;
    and help us, this and every day,
    to live more nearly as we pray.

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