by Richard Baxter
(Excerpts)

Ye holy Angels bright,
     Which stand before God's throne,
And dwell in glorious light,
     Praise ye the Lord each one.
          You there so nigh
               Are much more meet
               Than we the feet,
          For things so high.

You blessed souls at rest
     That see your Saviour's face,
Whose glory, even the least,
     Is far above our grace;
          God's praises sound,
               As in his sight
               With sweet delight
          You do abound.

All nations of the earth,
     Extol the world's great King;
With melody and mirth
     His glorious praises sing.
          For he still reigns;
               And will bring low
               The proudest foe
          That him disdains.

Sing forth Jehovah's praise,
     Ye saints that on him call;
Magnify him always;
     His holy churches all
          In him rejoice;
               And there proclaim
               His Holy Name
          With sounding voice.

My soul, bear thou thy part!
     Triumph in God above!
With a well-tuned heart
     Sing thou the songs of love.
          Thou art his own
               Whose precious blood,
               Shed for thy good,
          His love made known.

Though human help depart
     And flesh draw near to dust,
Let Faith keep up my heart
     To love God true and just;
          And all my days
               Let no disease
               Cause me to cease
          His joyful praise.

Though sin would make me doubt,
     And fill my soul with fears,
Though God seem to shut out
     My daily cries and tears,
          By no such frost
               Of sad delays
               Let thy sweet praise
          Be nipped and lost.

Away, distrustful care!
     I have thy promise, Lord.
To banish all despair,
     I have thy oath and word.
          And therefore I
               Shall see thy face,
               And there thy grace
          Shall magnify.

Though sin and death conspire
     To rob thee of thy praise,
Still towards thee I'll aspire,
     And thou dull hearts canst raise.
          Open thy door;
               And when grim death
               Shall stop this breath
          I'll praise thee more.

With thy triumphant flock
     Then I shall numbered be;
Built on the eternal rock
     His glory we shall see.
          The heavens so high
               With praise shall ring.
               And all shall sing
          In harmony.

The sun is but a spark
     From the eternal light;
Its brightest beams are dark
     To that most glorious sight.
          There the whole Chore
               With one accord
               Shall praise the Lord
          For evermore.

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