Songs of praise the angels sang, Heav'n with alleluias rang, when creation was begun, when God spoke and it was done.

The tulip's petals shine in dew, All beautiful, but none alike.

The purple heath and golden broom On moory mountains catch the gale, over lawns the lily sheds perfume, the violet in the vale.

Hope against hope, and ask till ye receive.

Here hyacinths of heavenly blue, shook their rich tresses to the morn.

Nature's prime favourites were the Pelicans;

High-fed, long-lived, and sociable and free.

When evening closes Nature's eye, The glow-worm lights her little spark To captivate her favorite fly And tempt the rover through the dark.

When to the cross I turn my eyes,And rest on Calvary,O Lamb of God, my sacrifice,I must remember Thee.

Baptize the nations! far and nigh,The triumphs of the cross recordThe name of Jesus glorify,Till every people call Him Lord.

Hymns should have unity, graduation and mutual dependence in the thoughts, a conscious progress, a sense of completeness and be easily understood.

We fought the Revolutionary War for no taxation without representation, it seems to me that we are much worse off today, because we are heavily taxed, and only the king's corporations control this Country, together with mob rule, of the special interests.

There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found, They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground.

While rose-buds scarcely show'd their hue, But coyly linger'd on the thorn.

The flash at midnight! -- 'twas a light
That gave the blind a moment's sight,
Then sunk in tenfold gloom;
Loud, deep, and long the thunder broke,
The deaf ear instantly awoke,
Then closed as in the tomb:
An angel might have pass'd my bed,
Sounded the trump of GOD, and fled.

There is a world above, Where parting is unknown; A whole eternity of love, Form'd for the good alone; And faith beholds the dying here Translated to that happier sphere.

Gashed with honourable scars,Low in Glory's lap they lie;Though they fell, they fell like stars,Streaming splendour through the sky.

Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head
Down on our own delightful bed.

The Dove, on silver pinions, winged her peaceful way.

Yet nightly pitch my moving tent, a day's march nearer home.

To-morrow -- oh, 'twill never be, If we should live a thousand years! Our time is all to-day, to-day, The same, though changed; and while it flies With still small voice the moments say: To-day, to-day, be wise, be wise.