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Old Guy Hymns: An Evening Song

[2 Let my prayer be counted as incense before you,
and the lifting up of my hands as the evening sacrifice! – Psalm 141:2]

Dread Sovereign! let my evening song
Like holy incense rise;
Assist the offerings of my tongue
To reach the lofty skies.

Through all the dangers of the day
Thy hand was still my guard,
And still to drive my wants away
Thy mercy stood prepared.]

Perpetual blessings from above
Encompass me around,
But O how few returns of love
Hath my Creator found!

What have I done for him that died
To save my wretched soul?
How are my follies multiplied,
Fast as my minutes roil

Lord, with this guilty heart of mine
To thy dear cross I flee;
And to thy grace my soul resign,
To be renewed by thee.

Sprinkled afresh with pard’ning blood,
I lay me down to rest,
As in th’ embraces of my God,
Or on my Savior’s breast.

~Isaac Watts~

Our Own Hymn-Book (Pasadena, TX; Pilgrim Publications; 2002) p.221.

Joy to the world; the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her King:
Let every heart prepare Him room,
And heaven and nature sing.

Joy to the earth; the Saviour reigns!
Let men their songs employ:
While fields, and floods, rocks, hills, and plains,
Repeat the sounding joy.

No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found.

He rules the world with truth and grace,
And makes the nations prove
The glories of His righteousness,
And wonders of His love.

~Isaac Watts~

Our Own Hymn-Book (Pasadena, TX; Pilgrim Publications; 2002) p.66.

Blest is the man who shuns the place
Where sinners love to meet:
Who fears to tread their wicked ways,
And hates the scoffer’s seat;

But in the statutes of the Lord
Has placed his chief delight;
By day he reads or hears the word,
And meditates by night.

He, like a plant of gen’rous kind,
By living waters set,
Safe from the storms and blasting wind,
Enjoys a peaceful state.

Green as the leaf, and ever fair,
Shall his profession shine;
While fruits of holiness appear
Like clusters on the vine.

Not so the impious and unjust;
What vain designs they form!
Their hopes are blown away like dust,
Or chaff before the storm.

Sinners in judgment shall not stand
Amongst the sons of grace,
When Christ, the Judge, at His right hand
Appoint His saints a place.

His eye beholds the path they tread;
His heart approves it well;
But crooked ways of sinners lead
Down to the gates of hell.

~Isaac Watts~

Our Own Hymn-Book (Pasadena, TX; Pilgrim Publications; 2002) p.1.