On the Death of Lady Hotham, June 30, 1756, Part 1

Father, Thy righteous will be done!
To make Thy righteous will our own,
We patiently resign
The object of our softest care.
The daughter of our faith and prayer.
The dearest gift Divine.

Unworthy of the blessing lent.
Her, from our bleeding bosom rent,
For ours no more we claim;
Whom mortals could not duly prize,
Join'd to her kindred in the skies.
And married to the Lamb.

Her lovely excellence is fled.
And leaves the dead to' entomb the dead.
To' embalm them with our tears:
And, lo, with softest pensive pace.
We measure out our mournful days,
Till IsmeVs car appears.

The car that carried up our friend,
The flaming host, shall soon descend,
Our spirits to remove;
There we again our friend shall find.
In love indissolubly join'd
To her who reigns above.

Through Him who call'd her up to reign.
We too the' immortal crown shall gain,
On patient faith bestow'd;
We trust the Lamb shall bring us through.
And hasten to the blissful view
Of a redeeming God.

Till then, disdaining all relief,
And brooding on our sacred grief,
We inwardly endure
The pangs of loss, the lingering smart.
The anguish of a broken heart.
Which only heaven can cure.

Help us. Thou heavenly Man of Woe,
Unwearied in Thy steps to go.
To mix our tears with Thine,
To drink Thine agonizing cup.
To fill Thine after-sufferings up,
And die the death Divine.

We only fear to lose our loss;
The burden of our heaviest cross
Through life we fain would bear;
Would feel the ever-recent wound.
And weeping at Thy feet be found,
And die lamenting there.