S. M.

Portion of saints and sinners; or, Hope and despair in death.

Arise, my gracious God,

And make the wicked flee;

They are but thy chastising rod,

To drive thy saints to thee.

Behold, the sinner dies,

His haughty words are vain;

Here in this life his pleasure lies,

And all beyond is pain.

Then let his pride advance,

And boast of all his store;

The Lord is my inheritance,

My soul can wish no more.

I shall behold the face

Of my forgiving God;

And stand complete in righteousness,

Washed in my Savior's blood.

There's a new heav'n begun,

When I awake from death,

Dressed in the likeness of thy Son,

And draw immortal breath.