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HYMN 129. C.M.
Funeral Hymn - Submission under bereaving Providence.

1	PEACE, 'tis the Lord Jehovah's hand    That blasts our joys in death; Changes the visage once so dear,    And gathers back the breath.
2	'Tis he, the Potentate supreme    Of all the worlds above, Whose steady counsels wisely rule,    Nor from their purpose move.
3	'Tis he, whose justice might demand    Our souls a sacrifice; Yet scatters with unwearied hand    A thousand rich supplies.
4	Our cov'nant God and Father he,    In Christ our bleeding Lord; Whose grace can heal the bursting heart    With one reviving word.
5	Silent we own Jehovah's name,    We kiss the scourging hand: And yield our comforts and our life    To thy supreme command.

HYMN 130. C.M.
Funeral Hymn - A Saint prepared to die.

1	DEATH may dissolve my body now,    And bear my spirit home; Why do my minutes move so slow,    Nor my salvation come?
2	With hcav'nly weapons, I have fought    The battles of the Lord; Finish'd my course, and kept the faith,    And wait the sure reward.
3	God hath laid up in hcav'n for me    A crown which cannot fade;

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HYMN 130. C.M.
Funeral Hymn - A Saint prepared to die. (cont.)

3	The righteous Judge, at that great day,    Shall place it on my head.
4	Nor hath the King of grace decreed    This prize for me alone; But all that love and long to see    Th' appearance of his Son.
5	Jesus, the Lord, shall guard me safe    From ev'ry ill design; And to his heav'nly kingdom take    This feeble soul of mine.
6	God is my everlasting aid,    And hell shall rage in vain; To him be highest glory paid,    And endless praise. Amen.

HYMN 131. C.M.
Funeral Hymn - A voice from the tombs.

1	HARK! from the tombs a doleful sound;    My ears attend the cry: "Ye living men, come view the ground,    "Where you must shortly lie.
2	"Princes, this clay must be your bed,    "In spite of all your tow'rs! "The tall, the wise, the rev'rend head    "Must lie as low as ours."
3	Great God! is this our certain doom?    And are we still secure? Still walking downward to the tomb,    And yet prepare no more?
4	Grant us the pow'r of quick'ning grace,    To fit our souls to fly; Then, when we drop this dying flesh,    We'll rise above the sky.