Hymn: Epithalamium on the Lambs Marriage

PRAISE Him, ye Servants of th' Eternal King,
To God your noblest Praises sing,
And make Heav'ns vault with the loud Eccho ring!
Praise Him, all ye, who fear his Name,
And o're th' Expanse his Lauds proclaim;

Both great and small in tuneful Shouts accord,
And with one Heart and Voice adore our Lord!

Hallelujah! Sing aloud!
Lowder still th' harmonious Voice,
Till it drown a Thunders Noise,
And with gay Horror fill th' admiring Crowd!
For (Lo!) our God Omnipotent does Reign,
And to himself resumes the Rule again.

Let us be glad now, and let us rejoyce,
And give him due Honour, who made us this Day;
A Day that compensates for all our Annoys,
And Ages that we for its Coming did pray:
The Lamb's Marriage-day, which tho long e're it came,
We meet, and greet thus with our Songs purest flame.

'Tis come, and does with hallow'd Glory shine,
So bright a Day in Heav'n did ne're appear,
(Tho ever Day, and bright 'tis ever there)
As this, illumin'd by the Sun Divine,
And for 'his own Nuptials made with high Design.
But yet how bright so e're it is,
His Bride new Lustre to it gives,
Who in her Glory waits Him, as He her in his.

See, where She stands array'd in Glorious wise,
Second alone to Him, who ever lives:
Above the boldest flight wing'd Seraph strives,
Who ne're such Beauties with Immortal Eyes,
E're gaz'd on, save in Him whose is the Prize.
For beside what's Her proper Dower,
(Charms, which th' Almighty overcame)
Heav'n all its riches on Her Dress does pour.

Choice of rich Garments has She thence, and store,
(Presented from the Wardrobe of the Lamb)
Of Gems that blaze with an Ethereal flame,
Enough all but the Wearer to devour,
And all but Heav'n to apprize them find too poor:
Choice of fine Linnen, clean and bright,
Beyond the skill of Mortal Art,
Washt in the Lambs pure Blood, and there made White.

These are Her Robes, and these Her Lord's delight,
(Who from His Presence ne're will let Her part,
But thus Array'd, resigns to Her his Heart)
The Righteousness of th' Saints, with sacred Light,
Communicated from his own blest Sight.
Thrice happy they, thrice happy he!
Who when their Mortal Life is done,
The Bridgroom's Friends, to' his Supper call'd shall be!

Thrice happy I, my God, if I be one,
One of the few, whom then Thou shalt invite!
No matter how Thou shalt dispose of me,
The meanest service Regal Honours does impart.