Sunday Hymn: O For A Thousand Tongues to Sing

O for a thou­sand tongues to sing
My great Re­deem­er’s praise,
The glo­ries of my God and king,
The tri­umphs of His grace!

My gra­cious mas­ter and my God,
Assist me to pro­claim,
To spread through all the earth abroad
The hon­ors of Thy name.

Jesus! the name that charms our fears,
That bids our sor­rows cease;
’Tis mu­sic in the sin­ner’s ears,
’Tis life, and health, and peace.

He breaks the pow­er of can­celed sin,
He sets the pri­son­er free;
His blood can make the foul­est clean,
His blood availed for me.

He speaks, and, list­en­ing to His voice,
New life the dead re­ceive,
The mourn­ful, brok­en hearts re­joice,
The hum­ble poor be­lieve.

Hear Him, ye deaf; His praise, ye dumb,
Your loos­ened tongues em­ploy;
Ye blind, be­hold your Sav­ior come,
And leap, ye lame, for joy.

In Christ your head, you then shall know,
Shall feel your sins for­giv­en;
Anticipate your heav­en be­low,
And own that love is heav­en.

Glory to God, and praise and love
Be ev­er, ev­er giv­en,
By saints be­low and saints ab­ove,
The church in earth and Heav­en.

On this glad day the glo­ri­ous sun
Of right­eous­ness arose;
On my be­night­ed soul He shone
And filled it with re­pose.

Sudden ex­pired the le­gal strife,
’Twas then I ceased to grieve;
My se­cond, real, liv­ing life
I then be­gan to live.

Then with my heart I first be­lieved,
Believed with faith di­vine,
Power with the Ho­ly Ghost re­ceived
To call the Sav­ior mine.

I felt my Lord’s aton­ing blood
Close to my soul ap­plied;
Me, me He loved, the Son of God,
For me, for me He died!

I found and owned His pro­mise true,
Ascertained of my part,
My par­don passed in Heav­en I knew
When writ­ten on my heart.

Look un­to Him, ye na­tions, own
Your God, ye fall­en race;
Look, and be saved through faith alone,
Be jus­ti­fied by grace.

See all your sins on Je­sus laid:
The Lamb of God was slain,
His soul was once an of­fer­ing made
For ev­ery soul of man.

Awake from guil­ty na­ture’s sleep,
And Christ shall give you light,
Cast all your sins in­to the deep,
And wash the Æthi­op white.

Harlots and pub­li­cans and thieves
In holy tri­umph join!
Saved is the sin­ner that be­lieves
From crimes as great as mine.

Murderers and all ye hell­ish crew,
Ye sons of lust and pride,
Believe the Sav­ior died for you;
For me the Sav­ior died.

With me, your chief, ye then shall know,
Shall feel your sins for­giv­en;
Anticipate your heav­en below,
And own that love is heav­en.

—Charles Wesley

Sunday Hymn: Love Divine, All Loves Excelling

Love di­vine, all loves ex­cel­ling,
Joy of Heav’n to earth come down;
Fix in us thy hum­ble dwell­ing;
All thy faith­ful mer­cies crown!
Jesus, Thou art all com­pas­sion,
Pure un­bound­ed love Thou art;
Visit us with Thy sal­va­tion;
Enter ev­ery trem­bling heart.

Breathe, O breathe Thy lov­ing Spir­it,
Into ev­ery trou­bled breast!
Let us all in Thee in­her­it;
Let us find that se­cond rest.
Take away our bent to sin­ning;
Alpha and Ome­ga be;
End of faith, as its be­gin­ning,
Set our hearts at li­ber­ty.

Come, Al­migh­ty to de­liv­er,
Let us all Thy life re­ceive;
Suddenly re­turn and nev­er,
Never more Thy tem­ples leave.
Thee we would be al­ways bless­ing,
Serve Thee as Thy hosts above,
Pray and praise Thee with­out ceas­ing,
Glory in Thy per­fect love.

Finish, then, Thy new cre­ation;
Pure and spot­less let us be.
Let us see Thy great sal­va­tion
Perfectly re­stored in Thee;
Changed from glo­ry in­to glo­ry,
Till in Heav’n we take our place,
Till we cast our crowns be­fore Thee,
Lost in won­der, love, and praise.

—Charles Wesley

Sunday Hymn: Ye Servants of God, Your Master Proclaim

I have always sung this hymn to the first tune, which, judging by YouTube videos, is the most common tune used in North America. The second seems to be the most common British one.

Which one do you sing?

Ye serv­ants of God, your mas­ter pro­claim,
And pub­lish abroad His won­der­ful name;
The name all vic­tor­ious of Je­sus ex­tol,
His kingd­om is glo­ri­ous and rules ov­er all.

The waves of the sea have lift­ed their voice,
Sore trou­bled that we in Je­sus re­joice;
The floods they are roar­ing, but Je­sus is here;
While we are ad­or­ing, He al­ways is near.

Men, de­vils en­gage, the bil­lows arise,
And hor­ri­bly rage, and threat­en the skies:
Their fu­ry shall nev­er our stead­fast­ness shock,
The weak­est be­liev­er is built on a rock.

God rul­eth on high, al­migh­ty to save,
And still He is nigh, His pre­sence we have;
The great con­gre­ga­tion His tri­umph shall sing,
Ascribing sal­va­tion to Je­sus our king.

Salvation to God, who sits on the throne,
Let all cry aloud and hon­or the Son!
The prais­es of Je­sus the an­gels pro­claim,
Fall down on their faces and wor­ship the Lamb.

Then let us adore, and give Him His right,
All glo­ry and pow­er, and wis­dom and might;
All hon­or and bless­ing, with an­gels above,
And thanks nev­er ceas­ing, and in­fi­nite love.

—Charles Wesley