4. Thus might I hide my blushing face While His dear Cross appears, Dissolve my heart in thankfulness, And melt my eyes in tears. 5. But drops of grief can ne’er repay The debt of love I owe; Here, Lord, I give myself away, ’Tis all that I can do. Isaac Watts, 1707. BURIAL OF JESUS. 215 4, 4, 7, 7, 6 O darkest woe! Ye tears, forth flow! Has earth so sad a wonder? God the Father’s only Son Now is buried yonder! 2. O sorrow dread Our God is dead! But by His expiation Of our guilt upon the cross Gained for us salvation. 3. O child of man! It was the ban Of death on thee that brought Him Down to suffer for thy sins, And such woe hath wrought Him. 4. See, stained with blood, The Lamb of God, The Bridegroom, lies before thee, Pouring out His life that He May to life restore thee. 5. O Ground of faith, Laid low in death, Sweet lips now silent sleeping! Surely all that live must mourn Here with bitter weeping. 6. O Virgin-born, Thy death we mourn, Thou lovely Star of gladness! Who could see Thy reeking blood Without grief and sadness? 7. Yea, blest is he Whose heart shall be Fixed here, who apprehendeth Why the Lord of Glory thus To the grave descendeth. 8. O Jesus blest, My Help and Rest, With tears I now entreat Thee: Make me love Thee to the last, Till in heaven I greet Thee! First stanza, anon.; J. Rist, 1641. 216 4, 4, 7, 7, 6 So rest, my Rest, Thou Ever-blest! Thy grave with sinners making; By Thy precious death from sin My dead soul awaking. 2. After Thy strife, Life of my life, Thou’rt in the tomb reposing, Round Thee now a rock-hewn grave, Rock of Ages, closing. 3. How cold art Thou, My Savior, now! Thy fervent love hath driven Thee into the cold, dark grave That I might gain heaven. 4. Breath of all breath! I know from death Thou wilt my dust awaken; Wherefore should I dread the grave Or my faith be shaken? 5. To me the tomb Shall be a room Where I lie down on roses; Who by faith hath conquered death Sweetly there reposes. 6. The body dies— Naught else—and lies In dust until victorious From the grave it shall arise Beautiful and glorious. 7. Meantime I will, My Savior, still Deep in my bosom lay Thee, Ever musing on Thy death. Leave me not, I pray Thee! Sal. Franck, 1716. 217 L. M.