Sunday Hymn: All Things Bright and Beautiful

Refrain

All things bright and beau­ti­ful,
All crea­tures great and small,
All things wise and won­der­ful:
The Lord God made them all.

Each lit­tle flow­er that op­ens,
Each lit­tle bird that sings,
He made their glow­ing col­ors,
He made their ti­ny wings.

The pur­ple head­ed mount­ains,
The river run­ning by,
The sun­set and the morn­ing
That bright­ens up the sky.

The cold wind in the win­ter,
The plea­sant sum­mer sun,
The ripe fruits in the gar­den,
He made them ev­ery one.

The tall trees in the green­wood,
The mea­dows where we play,
The rush­es by the wa­ter,
To ga­ther ev­ery day.

He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Al­migh­ty,
Who has made all things well.

—Cecil F. Alexander

Sunday Hymn: And Did the Holy and the Just

And did the ho­ly and the just,
The So­ver­eign of the skies,
Stoop down to wretch­ed­ness and dust,
That guil­ty worms might rise?

Yes, the Re­deem­er left His throne,
His ra­di­ant throne on high,
(Surprising mer­cy! love un­known!)
To suf­fer, bleed and die.

He took the dy­ing trai­tor’s place,
And suf­fered in his stead;
For man (O mi­ra­cle of grace!),
For man the Sav­ior bled!

Dear Lord, what heav’n­ly won­ders dwell
In Thy aton­ing blood?
By this are sin­ners snatched from hell,
And re­bels brought to God.

Jesus, my soul, ador­ing, bends
To love so full, so free;
And may I hope that love ex­tends
Its sac­red pow­er to me?

What glad re­turn can I im­part,
For fa­vors so di­vine?
O take my all—this worth­less heart,
And make it on­ly Thine.

—Anne Steele

Sunday Hymn: Thou Lovely Source of True Delight

Thou lovely Source of true delight,
Whom I unseen adore!
Unvail thy beauties to my sight,
That I may love thee more.

Thy glory o’er creation shines;—
But in thy sacred word,
I read, in fairer, brighter lines,
My bleeding, dying Lord.

‘Tis here, whene’er my comforts droop,
And sin and sorrow rise,
Thy love, with cheering beams of hope,
My fainting heart supplies.

But ah! too soon the pleasing scene
Is clouded o’er with pain;
My gloomy fears rise dark between,
And I again complain.

Jesus, my Lord, my life, my light!
Oh, come with blissful ray;
Break radiant through the shades of night,
And chase my fears away.

Then shall my soul with rapture trace
The wonders of thy love:
But the full glories of thy face
Are only known above.

—Anne Steele