Sunday Hymn: I Asked the Lord That I Might Grow

I asked the Lord that I might grow
In faith, and love, and ev­ery grace;
Might more of His sal­va­tion know,
And seek, more ear­nest­ly, His face.

’Twas He who taught me thus to pray,
And He, I trust, has an­swered pray­er!
But it has been in such a way,
As al­most drove me to des­pair.

I hoped that in some fa­vored hour,
At once He’d an­swer my re­quest;
And by His love’s con­strain­ing pow’r,
Subdue my sins, and give me rest.

Instead of this, He made me feel
The hid­den ev­ils of my heart;
And let the an­gry pow­ers of hell
Assault my soul in ev­ery part.

Yea more, with His own hand He seemed
Intent to ag­gra­vate my woe;
Crossed all the fair de­signs I schemed,
Blasted my gourds, and laid me low.

Lord, why is this, I trem­bling cried,
Wilt thou pur­sue Thy worm to death?
’Tis in this way, the Lord re­plied,
I ans­wer pray­er for grace and faith.

These in­ward tri­als I em­ploy,
From self, and pride, to set thee free;
And break thy schemes of earth­ly joy,
That thou may’st find thy all in Me.

—John Newton

Sunday's Hymn: Come Down, O Love Divine

Come down, O love di­vine,
Seek Thou this soul of mine,
And vi­sit it with Thine
Own ar­dor glow­ing.
O Com­fort­er, draw near,
Within my heart ap­pear,
And kin­dle it,
Thy ho­ly flame be­stow­ing.

O let it free­ly burn,
Til earth­ly pass­ions turn
To dust and ash­es
In its heat con­sum­ing;
And let Thy glo­ri­ous light
Shine ev­er on my sight,
And clothe me round,
The while my path il­lum­ing.

Let ho­ly char­ity mine
Outward ves­ture be,
And low­li­ness be­come
Mine in­ner clo­thing;
True low­li­ness of heart,
Which takes the hum­bler part,
And o’er its own short­com­ings
Weeps with loath­ing.

And so the yearn­ing strong,
With which the soul will long,
Shall far out­pass the pow­er
Of hu­man tell­ing;
For none can guess its grace,
Till he be­come the place
Wherein the Ho­ly Spir­it
Makes His dwell­ing.

—Bi­an­co of Si­ena (?–1434)

Sunday Hymn: All People That on Earth Do Dwell

All peo­ple that on earth do dwell,
Sing to the Lord with cheer­ful voice.
Him serve with fear, His praise forth tell;
Come ye be­fore Him and re­joice.

The Lord, ye know, is God in­deed;
Without our aid He did us make;
We are His folk, He doth us feed,
And for His sheep He doth us take.

O en­ter then His gates with praise;
Approach with joy His courts un­to;
Praise, laud, and bless His name al­ways,
For it is seem­ly so to do.

For why? the Lord our God is good;
His mer­cy is for ev­er sure;
His truth at all times firm­ly stood,
And shall from age to age en­dure.

To Fa­ther, Son and Ho­ly Ghost,
The God whom Heav­en and earth ad­ore,
From men and from the an­gel host
Be praise and glo­ry ev­er­more.

—Willi­am Kethe, 16th century