Hymns for the Use of the Methodist Preachers, 13

Jesu, Thy waiting servants see
Assembled here with one accord,
Ready to be sent forth by Thee,
To preach, when Thou shalt give, the word
Now, Lord, our work, our province show,
For lo! we come. Thy will to do.

O what a scene attracts our eyes!
What multitudes of lifeless souls!
An open vale before us lies,
A place of graves, a place of skulls,
The desolate house of England'' s sons,
A Church — a charnel of dry bones!

The slaves of pride, ambition, lust.
Our broken pale, alas! receives;
The world into the temple thrust.
And make our Church a den of thieves,
Her grief, her burden, and her shame,
Yet all assume the Church's name.

Her desolate state too well we know,
But neither hate her, nor despise:
Our bosoms bleed, our tears o'erflow;
We view her, Saviour, with Thine eyes,
(O might she know in this her day!)
And still we weep, and still we pray.

We pray that these dry bones may live:
We see the answer of our prayer!
Thou dost a thousand tokens give.
That England's Church is still Thy care,
Ten thousand witnesses appear,
Ten thousand proofs, that God is here!

Here then, O God, vouchsafe to dwell,
And mercy on our Smi show;
Her inbred enemies expel,
Avenge her of her hellish foe,
Cause on her wastes Thy face to shine,
And comfort her with light Divine.

O Light of Life, Thy Spirit shed,
In all His cheering, quickening power:
Thy word that raised us from the dead,
Can raise ten thousand, thousand more.
Can bring them up from nature's grave,
And the whole house of Israel save.