Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host:

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

JOHN KENT.

JOHN KENT was born at Bideford, Devonshire, in December, 1766. During his childhood, his father removed to Plymouth, having obtained employment as a shipwright in Plymouth Dock, now Devonport. In his fourteenth year, he was apprenticed to his father. Not having pos sessed the advantage of a school education, his leisure hours were now devoted to selfimprovement. He began to write sacred verses. In 1803, he published a selection of these compositions in a 32m0 volume, entitled "A Collection of Original Gospel Hymns." Kent continued to reside at Plymouth, pursuing a career of unobtrusive piety. He was latterly afflicted with the loss of eyesight. His death took place on the 15th November, 1843. "I am accepted," were his last words, as he gently fell asleep. The hymns of John Kent have been frequently reprinted. Those which follow have been transcribed from "Original Gospel Hymns and Poems, by John Kent, with a life of the Author, by his son;" tenth edition, London, 1861, 12mo.

THE ROCK OF AGES.

WHEN Overwhelm'd with doubts and fear,
Great God, do Thou my spirit cheer;
Let not mine eyes with tears be fed,
But to the Rock of ages led.

When storms of sin and sorrows beat,
Lead me to this Divine retreat ;
Thy perfect righteousness and blood,
My Rock, my Fortress, and my God.

When guilt lies heavy on my soul,
And waves of fierce temptation roll,
I'll to this Rock for shelter flee,
And take my refuge, Lord, in Thee.

When sick, or faint, or sore dismay'd,
Then let my hopes on Thee be stay'd:
Thy summit, rising to the skies,

Shall shield my head when dangers rise.

Shelter'd by Thine omnipotence,

What potent arm shall pluck me hence? On every side I'm guarded well,

With love and grace immutable.

High as my sin, yea, higher too,
This everlasting Rock I view;
Replete with free eternal grace,
Made from of old my dwelling-place.

When call'd the vale of death to tread,
Then to this Rock may I be led ;
Nor fear to cross that gloomy sea,
Since Thou hast tasted death for me.

A SINNER SAVED.

LET Zion in her songs record

The honours of her dying Lord,

Triumphant over sin;

How sweet the song there's none can say, But he whose sins are wash'd away,

Who feels the same within.

We claim no merit of our own,
But self-condemned, before Thy throne,

Our hopes on Jesus place;

In heart, in lip, in life depraved,

Our theme shall be "a sinner saved,"
And praise redeeming grace.

We'll sing the same while life shall last,
And when, at the archangel's blast,
Our sleeping dust shall rise;

Then, in a song for ever new,

The glorious theme we'll still pursue
Throughout the azure skies.

Prepared of old, at God's right hand,
Bright, everlasting mansions stand

For all the blood-bought race;
And till we reach those seats of bliss,
We'll sing no other song but this-
Salvation all of grace.

REIGNING GRACE.

HARK! how the blood-bought host above
Conspire to praise redeeming love,
In sweet harmonious strains;
And while they strike their golden lyres,
This golden theme each bosom fires,
That Grace triumphant reigns!

Join thou, my soul; for thou canst tell
How Grace Divine broke up thy cell,
And loosed thy native chains;
And still, from that auspicious day,
How oft are thou constrain'd to say,
That Grace triumphant reigns!

When David fell, in days of old,
This brought the wanderer to the fold,
A prisoner in its chains ;
Now free from sin, a virgin soul,

To sing, while endless ages roll,

That Grace triumphant reigns.

Grace, till the tribes redeemed by blood Are brought to know themselves and God,

Her empire shall maintain;

To call, when He appoints the day,
And from the mighty take the prey,
Shall Grace triumphant reign.

When call'd to meet the King of Dread, Should love compose my dying bed,

And Grace my soul sustain,

Then, ere I quit this mortal clay,
I'll raise my fainting voice, and say,

Let Grace triumphant reign.

LORD KINLOCH.

WILLIAM PENNEY, a Judge of the Court of Session in Scotland, under the title of Lord Kinloch, was born in Glasgow, on the 8th August, 1801. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was a merchant in that city. He was educated at the University of Glasgow. Selecting the profession of the law, he passed advocate in 1824. In 1858, he was raised to the bench. The following compositions, by Lord Kinloch, are transcribed, with permission, from his lordship's volume of religious poetry, entitled "Time's Treasure, or Devout Thoughts for every Day of the Year;" 1863, 8vo. Besides this work, Lord Kinloch has published "The Circle of Christian Doctrine," 1861, 8vo; and "Studies for Sunday Evening," 1866, 8vo.

HOLY GROUND.

'Tis not the temple's shrine,
Which holy makes the place:
Where'er God is, is power Divine ;
Where'er God helps, is grace.

The bush on Horeb's peak,
Burning and unconsumed,

The prophet bent to reverence meek;

For God the spot illumed.

The sword at night beheld
By Jordan's swelling bed,
The captain of the host compelled
To own the Lord who led.

Think of thy God as near;
And, once His presence found,
Be sure, whate'er around appear,
Thou tread'st on holy ground.

Put off, O man, thy shoes,

With which thou earth hast trod;
Thee from earth's dust and toil unloose,

And worship pay thy God.

So shalt thou find a light,

To burn and still endure;

A Leader, of all-conquering might,

To make thy Canaan sure.

THE ONLY POSSIBLE.

I CANNOT clear this troubled breast
Of cares, which every day molest ;
Only I can remember Thine,
O Saviour, and the less repine.

I cannot drive this sin away,
Which makes me still anew its prey;
I can but to Thy cross repair,
To hear Thee speak my pardon there.

I cannot love as I desire,
With bosom for Thy grace on fire
I can but view Thy love to me,
And humbled feel, so loved to be.

I cannot rise, as fain I would,
To perfect right, or perfect good:
I can but think of Thee on high,
O Saviour, and be glad to die.

In vain are all my efforts made
Myself to save, or lift, or aid;
The only possible for me,

O Saviour, is to cling to Thee:

;

In time of dread, Thy hand to hold ;

In loss, Thy charter to unfold;

On Thee to lean when prompt to fall;
And, sought in Thee, in Thee have all.

HEAVEN REALIZED.

FAIN would I soar above this earth,
And sun my spirit in the glow
Of that blest land, where nought of dearth
Is known, or pain, or toil, or woe.

I'd wrest my moments from the power
Of this poor scene of strife and care,
And spend, if but a passing hour,

In heaven, amid the bright ones there.