Publications, Oplag 8

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Side 195 - Ask ye of the Lord rain in the time of the latter rain; so the Lord shall make bright clouds, and give them showers of rain, to every one grass in the field.
Side 201 - Return unto thy rest, 0 my soul ; for the LORD hath dealt bountifully with thee. For thou hast delivered my soul from death, mine eyes from tears, and my feet from falling.
Side 135 - Scripture is the only cure of woe : That field of promise, how it flings abroad Its odour o'er the Christian's thorny road ! The soul, reposing on assured relief, Feels herself happy amidst all her grief, Forgets her labour as she toils along, Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song.
Side 59 - There is no man that hath left house, or parents, or brethren, or wife, or children, for the kingdom of God's sake, Who shall not receive manifold more in this present time, and in the world to come life everlasting.
Side 201 - For then will I turn to the people a pure language, that they may all call upon the name of the Lord, to serve Him with one consent.
Side 169 - The thousands that, uncheered by praise, Have made one offering of their days ; For truth, for heaven, for freedom's sake, Resigned the bitter cup to take ; And silently in fearless faith Bowing their noble souls to death...
Side 28 - Are we not assured, that the angels of heaven are "ministering spirits, sent forth to minister to the heirs of salvation...
Side 173 - Him who died for our sins, and rose again for our justification, and now liveth and reigneth with Thee and the Holy Ghost, one God world without end.
Side 16 - And I heard as it were the voice of a great multitude, and as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of mighty thunderings, saying, Alleluia : for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth. Let us be glad and rejoice, and give honour to Him : for the marriage of the Lamb is come, and His wife hath made herself ready.
Side 48 - Think not of rest; though dreams be sweet, Start up, and ply your heaven-ward feet. Is not God's oath upon your head, Ne'er to sink back on slothful bed, Never again your loins untie, Nor let your torches waste and die, Till, when the shadows thickest fall, Ye hear your Master's midnight call ? THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT.

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