The Race Set Before Us (Hebrews 12:1-3)
Come, ye that love the Lord,
And let your joys be known;
Join in a song with sweet accord,
Join in a song with sweet accord,
And thus surround the throne,
And thus surround the throne.
We’re marching to Zion,
Beautiful, beautiful, Zion:
We’re marching upward to Zion,
The beautiful city of God.
Let those refuse to sing
Who never knew our God:
But children of the heavenly King,
But children of the heavenly King
Shall speak their joys abroad,
Shall speak their joys abroad.
The hill of Zion yields
A thousand sacred sweets;
Before we reach the heavenly fields,
Before we reach the heavenly fields,
Or walk the golden streets,
Or walk the golden streets.
Then let our songs abound,
And every tear be dry;
We’re marching through Immanuel’s ground,
We’re marching through Immanuel’s ground
To fairer worlds on high,
To fairer worlds on high.
Isaac Watts
Blest are the humble souls that see
Their emptiness and poverty;
Treasures of grace to them are giv’n,
And crowns of joy laid up in heaven.
Blest are the men of broken heart,
Who mourn for sin and inward smart;
The blood of Christ divinely flows,
A healing balm for all their woes.
Blest are the souls that long for grace,
Hunger and thirst for righteousness;
They shall be well supplied and fed
With living streams and living bread.
Blest are the pure, whose hearts are clean
From the defiling power of sin;
With endless pleasure they shall see
The God of spotless purity.
Blest are the sufferers, who partake
Of pain and shame for Jesu’s sake;
Their souls shall triumph in the Lord;
Glory and joy are their reward.
Isaac Watts
I lift my heart to Thee,
Saviour divine;
For Thou art all to me,
And I am Thine.
Is there on earth a closer bond than this,
That my Beloved’s mine, and I am His?
Thine am I by all ties;
But chiefly Thine,
That through Thy sacrifice
Thou, Lord, art mine.
By Thine own cords of love, so sweetly wound
Around me, I to Thee am closely bound.
To Thee, Thou dying Lamb,
I all things owe;
All that I have, and am,
And all I know.
All that I have is now no longer mine,
And I am not my own; Lord, I am Thine.
How can I, Lord, withhold
Life’s brightest hour
From Thee; or gathered gold,
Or any power?
Why should I keep one precious thing from Thee,
When Thou hast giv’n Thine own dear Self to me?
I pray Thee, Saviour, keep
Me in Thy love,
Until death’s holy sleep
Shall me remove
To that fair realm where, sin and sorrow o’er,
Thou and Thine own are one for evermore.
Charles E. Mudie
A safe stronghold our God is still,
A trusty shield and weapon;
He’ll help us clear from all the ill
That hath us now o’ertaken.
The ancient prince of hell
Hath ris’n with purpose fell;
Strong mail of craft and pow’r
He weareth in this hour;
On earth is not his fellow.
With force of arms we nothing can,
Full soon we were down-ridden;
But for us fights the Proper Man,
Whom God Himself hath bidden.
Ask ye; who is this same?
Christ Jesus is His name,
The Lord Sabaoth’s Son;
He, and no other one,
Shall conquer in the battle.
And were this world all devils o’er,
And watching to devour us,
We lay it not to heart so sore;
Not they can overpower us.
And let the prince of ill
Look grim as ere he will,
He harms us not a whit:
For why? His doom is writ;
A word shall quickly slay him.
God’s word, for all their craft and force,
One moment will not linger;
But, spite of hell, shall have its course;
‘Tis written by His finger.
And though they take our life,
Goods, honour, children, wife,
Yet is their profit small:
These things shall vanish all;
The city of God remaineth.
Martin Luther, trans Thomas Carlyle
Piano: Bill Ashton
Singing: Hilary Ashton
Sunday Worship 10.45am & 6.00pm