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AWAKE, my joy, awake, I say,
My lute, my harp and string;
And I myself before the day
Will rise, rejoice, and sing.

Among the people I will tell
The goodness of my God,
And shew his praise that doth excel
In heathen lands abroad.

His mercy doth extend as far

As heavens all are high,

His truth as high as any star
That shineth in the sky.


AWAKE my glory; harp and lute, No longer let your strings be mute; And I, my tuneful part to take, Will with the early dawn awake.

Thy praises, Lord, I will resound
To all the list'ning nations round:
Thy mercy highest heav'n transcends,
Thy truth beyond the clouds extends.
Be thou, O God, exalted high;
And, as thy glory fills the sky,
So let it be on earth display'd,
Till thou art here, as there obey'd.


O GOD, my gracious God, to thee
My morning pray'rs shall offer'd be;

For thee my thirsty soul doth pant; My fainting flesh implores thy grace, Within this dry and barren place, Where I refreshing waters want.

My life, while I that life enjoy,
In blessing God I will employ,
With lifted hands adore his name;
My soul's content shall be as great
As their's, who choicest dainties eat,
While I with joy his praise proclaim.

When down I lie sweet sleep to find, Thou, Lord, art present to my mind,

And when I wake in dead of night; Because thou still dost succour bring, Beneath the shadow of thy wing, I rest with safety and delight.


To bless thy chosen race,
In mercy, Lord incline:
And cause the brightness of thy face
On all thy saints to shine.

That so thy wond'rous ways

May through the world be known; Whilst distant lands their tribute pay,

And thy salvation own.

Let diff'ring nations join

To celebrate thy fame;

Let all the world, O Lord, combine
To praise thy glorious name,


How pleasant is thy dwelling place,

O Lord of hosts to me! The tabernacles of thy grace,

How pleasant, Lord, they be.

My soul doth long full sore to go
Into thy courts abroad:
My heart and flesh cry out also
For thee the living God.

Much rather had I keep a door
Within the house of God,
Then in the tents of wickedness
To settle my abode.

O Lord of Hosts, that man is blest,
And happy sure is he,

That is presuaded in his breast
To trust all times in thee.


THY mercies, Lord, shall be my song, My song on them shall ever dwell


To ages yet unborn my tongue
Thy never-failing truth shall tell.

I have affirm'd, and still maintain,
Thy mercy shall for ever last;

Thy truth, that does the heav'ns sustain,
Like them shall stand for ever fast.

Thy saints shall always be o'erjoy'd,
Who on thy sacred name rely;
And, in thy righteousness employ'd,
Above their foes be rais'd on high.


How good and pleasant must it be
To thank the Lord most high!
And with repeated hymns of praise
His name to magnify.

With ev'ry morning's early dawn

His goodness to relate;

And of his constant truth each night
The glad effects repeat.

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