See there, ye misbelieving race

See there, ye misbelieving race,
The wisdom from above!
Behold in that pale, smiling face
The power of Him we love.
How calmly through the mortal vale
He walks with Christ his Guide,
And treads down all the powers of hell,
And owns the Crucified!

Where is the king of terrors? where
The pomp of deadly pain?
A child of God his frowns can dare,
And all his darts disdain:
"The king of fears," he greatly cries,
"Can never frighten me,
Who grasp through death the glorious prize
Of immortality.

"The life, which in my spirit dwells,
He never can destroy,
And all the pain my body feels
Is swallow'd up in joy.
Jesus doth all my burdens bear:
And gladly I commend
The objects of my latest care
To my eternal Friend.

"Whate'er ye ask, whate'er ye want,
My Lord shall richly give:
The blessing of a dying saint
On all your souls I leave.
Come, follow to that happy place,
Our Master's joy to see,
For O! in one short moment's space
Ye all shall rest with me.

"Rejoice, my friends, I go before,
To meet my happy doom,
And tell them on the heavenly shore,
Ye all are hastening home.
For me my Father's chariot waits,
I see the flaming steeds,
And lo! the everlasting gates
Lift up their pearly heads!

"The blessed messenger is sent
To lead me to the throne,
Above that starry firmament,
Above that glimmering sun.
The angel beckons me away
To fairer worlds on high:
And let me now the call obey,
And lay me down, and' die.

"At this thrice welcome time of grace,
When God for me was born,
Made ready for His kind embrace,
My spirit shall return.
To-day I shall with rapture see
The Child to mortals given, T
And kiss the' Incarnate Deity,
And keep the feast in heaven.

u Even now the earnest He reveals
Of my eternal rest,
The' immeasurable comfort swells
This weak transported breast:
My body fails, my soul wants air,
And gasps for its remove,
So much of heaven I cannot bear,
I am too full of love."

Thrice happy soul! by special grace
So highly favour'd here,
To sound in death the Saviour's praise,
And breathe the Comforter:
On earth to' enjoy the blissful sight
To dying Stephen given,
And see his Lord enthroned in light,
And see his opening heaven.

That heavenly bliss, when language fails,
His every look displays,
And every smile divinely tells
The raptures of the place.
The glory, while he lays it down,
Shines through the sinking clay,
And lo! without a parting groan,
The soul ascends away!

Without a groan the Christian dies!
But not without a word:
On me, on me, he loudly cries,
To meet our common Lord.
He calls me by my worthless name,
My soul he beckons home:
And lo! in Jesus' hands I am,
And lo! I gladly come!

Witness my undissembled tears,
If here I wish to stay,
Or rather to shake off my fears,
And corruptible clay.
Witness the Searcher of my heart,
Whose absence I bemoan,
And pine, and languish to depart,
And struggle to be gone.

Lord, if Thou didst indeed inspire
Thy servant's dying breast,
And fill him with Thine own desire,
That I with Thee might rest;
Thine own desire in me fulfil,
Thy perfect love dispense,
And freely my backslidings heal,
And now transport me hence.