“Gwlad dda heb wae, gwlad wedi ei rhoi dan sêl,” A land of Holiness, a Sabbath rest, A land with more than milk and honey blest, A land of everlasting Bread and Wine,— A land where Jesus bids us “come and dine,”— O! may that happy land be thine and mine! HYMN XX. “_A new and living way_” HEB. x, 20. “Ffordd â’i henw yn “Rhyfeddol”” YESTERDAY, to-day, and ever,— Liable to no decay,— Wonderful above all other Is the new and living way: Stained, regained and consecrated By My Blessed Saviour’s Blood, It conducts the lone, belated Pilgrim to the throne of God. Though it mean regeneration, Rest, imputed righteousness, Liberty, justification, And eternal happiness, Multitudes, preferring midnight, Wander witlessly astray, Even though the shining sunlight Shew this new and living way. Preordained before creation Rose—in Eve, the woman’s seed,— It was man’s one consolation In his night of utmost need— Primitively preconcerted By The Blessed Trinity.— Never may I be perverted, O My God, from it and Thee! HYMN XXI. “_Behold_, _I have set before thee a door opened_, _which none can shut_” REV. iii, 8. “O’m blaen mi welaf ddrws agored,” STRAIT, yet open wide before me, Stands a door by which the blest, Through The Blood of My Redeemer, Enter into endless rest. From the devil and his angels Jesus died to rescue me, Crucified in shame and anguish On the tree of Calvary. O for grace to be submissive And attentive to His Word,— Grace to cast the galling burden Of the past upon The Lord,— Grace to pay my vows whenever I have vowed unto The Lord,— Grace to sway the sword of safety, Ever His Eternal Word! Human life, in all its stages, Meets with many enemies, Satan’s evil emissaries Compassing about like bees, Some within my mind are tempting My dull soul to doubt My God; Help me, Gracious Lord, to rout them, Trusting to Thy Precious Blood. To a sorrow stricken sinner It is comforting to read That My God is My Redeemer Ever nigh in time of need. When the veil is rent asunder, Oh! how blessed will it be To behold The Same Redeemer Still My Own eternally. HYMN XXII. “_Oh that mine head were waters_, _and mine eyes a fountain of tears_” JER. lx. 1. “O! na bai fy mhen yn ddyfroedd” WOULD that my poor head were waters That I might not cease to weep Over Sion’s sons and daughters, Wrapt in waywardness and sleep! Foxes, the vineyard thieving, Are destroying all the bloom, And the bright Sheckinah, leaving Sion, leaves her to her doom.