Words: , Hymns and Sac­red Po­ems, 1740.

Music: Can­on­bu­ry, adapt­ed from Nacht­stück, Op­us 23, No. 4, by , 1839. Al­ter­nate tune:

  • Church Tri­umph­ant, , 1874

On August 31, 1739, [Wes­ley’s] Jour­nal says, ‘I spoke to the poor coll­iers on “The blind re­ceive their sight, the lame walk,” &c.’ On Tues­day, Sep­tember 4, he ‘preached over against the school in Kings­wood, to some thou­sands (colli­ers chief­ly [see the last two vers­es, writ­ten with this au­di­ence in mind]), and held out the prom­is­es, from Isa. xxxv.: “The wild­er­ness and the sol­i­ta­ry place shall be glad for them; and the de­sert shall rejoice, and bloss­om as the rose.” I tri­umphed in God’s mer­cy to these poor out­casts (for He hath called them a peo­ple who were not a peo­ple), and in the ac­comp­lish­ment of that script­ure, “Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,” &c. Oh, how glad­ly do the poor re­ceive the gos­pel! We hardl­y knew how to part.’

When White­field told his friends in Bris­tol that he was go­ing to Amer­i­ca to preach to sav­ag­es, they re­plied, ‘What need of go­ing abroad for this? Have we not In­di­ans enough at home? If you want to con­vert Indians, there are coll­iers enough at Kings­wood.’

Glory to God, whose sovereign grace
Hath animated senseless stones;
Called us to stand before His face,
And raised us into Abraham’s sons!

The people that in darkness lay,
In sin and error’s deadly shade,
Have seen a glorious gospel day,
In Jesus’ lovely face displayed.

Thou only, Lord, the work hast done,
And bared Thine arm in all our sight;
Hast made the reprobates Thine own,
And claimed the outcasts as Thy right.

Thy single arm, almighty Lord,
To us the great salvation brought,
Thy Word, Thy all-creating Word,
That spake at first the world from naught.

For this the saints lift up their voice,
And ceaseless praise to Thee is giv’n;
For this the hosts above rejoice,
We raise the happiness of Heav’n.

For this, no longer sons of night,
To Thee our thankful hearts we give;
To Thee, who called us into light,
To Thee we die, to Thee we live.

Suffice that for the season past
Hell’s horrid language filled our tongues,
We all Thy words behind us cast,
And lewdly sang the drunkard’s songs.

But, O the power of grace divine!
In hymns we now our voices raise,
Loudly in strange hosannas join,
And blasphemies are turned to praise!