Manna Hoarded
The manna favored Israel's meat,
Was gathered day by day;
When all the host was served, the heat
Melted the rest away.
In vain to hoard it up they tried,
Against tomorrow came;
It then bred worms and putrefied,
And proved their sin and shame.
'Twas daily bread and would not keep,
But must be still renewed;
Faith should not want a hoard or heap,
But trust the Lord for food.
The truths by which the soul is fed,
Must thus be had afresh;
For notions resting in the head,
Will only feed the flesh.
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poem by John Newton
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Smyrna
The message first to Smyrna sent,
A message full of grace;
To all the Saviour's flock is meant,
In every age and place.
Thus to his church, his chosen bride,
Saith the great First and Last;
Who ever lives, though once he died,
Hold thy profession fast.
Thy works and sorrows well I know,
Performed and borne for me;
Poor though thou art, despised and low,
Yet who is rich like thee?
I know thy foes, and what they say,
How long they have blasphemed;
The synagogue of Satan, they,
Though they would Jews be deemed.
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poem by John Newton
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The Refuge, River, And Rock Of The Church
He who on earth as man was known,
And bore our sins and pains;
Now, seated on th' eternal throne,
The God of glory reigns.
His hands the wheels of nature guide
With an unerring skill;
And countless worlds extended wide,
Obey his sovereign will.
While harps unnumbered sound his praise,
In yonder world above;
His saints on earth admire his ways,
And glory in his love.
His righteousness, to faith revealed,
Wrought out for guilty worms,
Affords a hiding place and shield,
From enemies and storms.
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poem by John Newton
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The Golden Calf
When Israel heard the fiery law,
From Sinai's top proclaimed;
Their hearts seemed full of holy awe,
Their stubborn spirits tamed.
Yet, as forgetting all they knew,
Ere forty days were past;
With blazing Sinai still in view,
A molten calf they cast.
Yea, Aaron, God's anointed priest,
Who on the mount had been
He durst prepare the idol-beast,
And lead them on to sin.
Lord, what is man! and what are we,
To recompense thee thus!
In their offence our own we see,
Their story points at us.
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poem by John Newton
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The Lord's Call To His Children
Let us adore the grace that seeks
To draw our hearts above!
Attend, 'tis God the Saviour speaks,
And every word is love.
Though filled with awe, before his throne
Each angel veils his face;
He claims a people for his own
Amongst our sinful race.
Careless, awhile, they live in sin,
Enslaved to Satan's pow'r;
But they obey the call divine,
In his appointed hour.
Come forth, he says, no more pursue
The paths that lead to death;
Look up, a bleeding Saviour view,
Look, and be saved by faith.
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poem by John Newton
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The Wheat And Tares
Though in the outward church below
The wheat and tares together grow;
Jesus ere long will weed the crop,
And pluck the tares, in anger, up.
Will it relieve their horrors there,
To recollect their stations here?
How much they heard, how much they knew,
How long amongst the wheat they grew!
O! this will aggravate their case!
They perished under means of grace;
To them the word of life and faith,
Became an instrument of death.
We seem alike when thus we meet,
Strangers might think we all are wheat;
But to the Lord's all-searching eyes,
Each heart appears without disguise.
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poem by John Newton
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But One Loaf
When the disciples crossed the lake
With but one loaf on board;
How strangely did their hearts mistake
The caution of their Lord.
The leaven of the Pharisees
Beware, the Saviour said;
They thought, it is because he sees
We have forgotten bread.
It seems they had forgotten too,
What their own eyes had viewed;
How with what scarce sufficed for few,
He fed a multitude.
If five small loaves, by his command,
Could many thousands serve;
Might they not trust his gracious hand,
That they should never starve?
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poem by John Newton
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Trust Of The Wicked, And The Righteous Compared
As parched in the barren sands
Beneath a burning sky,
The worthless bramble with'ring stands,
And only grows to die.
Such is the sinner's aweful case,
Who makes the world his trust;
And dares his confidence to place
In vanity and dust.
A secret curse destroys his root,
And dries his moisture up;
He lives awhile, but bears no fruit,
Then dies without a hope.
But happy he whose hopes depend
Upon the Lord alone;
The soul that trusts in such a friend,
Can ne'er be overthrown.
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poem by John Newton
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Manna To Israel Well Supplied
Manna to Israel well supplied
The want of other bread;
While God is able to provide,
His people shall be fed.
Thus though the corn and wine should fail,
And creature-streams be dry;
The prayer of faith will still prevail,
For blessings from on high.
Of his kind care how sweet a proof!
It suited every taste;
Who gathered most, had just enough,
Enough, who gathered least.
'Tis thus our gracious Lord provides
Our comforts and our cares;
His own unerring hand provides,
And gives us each our shares.
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poem by John Newton
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That Rock Was Christ
When Israel's tribes were parch'd with thirst,
Forth from the rock the waters burst;
And all their future journey through
Yielded them drink, and Gospel too!
In Moses' rod a type they saw
Of his severe and fiery law;
The smitten rock prefigur'd Him
From whose pierc'd side all blessings stream.
But ah! the types were all too faint,
His sorrows or his worth to paint;
Slight was the stroke of Moses' rod,
But he endur'd the wrath of God.
Their outward rock could feel no pain,
But ours was wounded, torn and slain;
The rock gave but a wat'ry flood,
But Jesus pour'd forth streams of blood.
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poem by John Newton
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