1 Behold what wondrous grace
The Father hath bestow’d
On sinners of a mortal race,
To call them sons of God!

2 ’Tis no surprising thing
That we should be unknown;
The Jewish world knew not their King,
God’s everlasting Son.

3 Nor doth it yet appear
How great we must be made;
But when we see our Saviour here,
We shall be like our head.

4 A hope so much divine
May trials well endure,
May purge our souls from sense and sin,
As Christ the Lord is pure.

5 If in my Father’s love
I share a filial part,
Send down thy Spirit like a dove
To rest upon my heart.

6 We would no longer lie
Like slaves beneath the throne;
My faith shall Abba, Father, cry,
And thou the kindred own.

Hymn 1:65. 
The kingdoms of the world become the kingdoms
of our Lord; or, The day of judgment, Rev. 11. 15-18.

1 Let the seventh angel sound on high,
Let shouts be heard thro’ all the sky;
Kings of the earth, with glad accord
Give up your kingdoms to the Lord.

2 Almighty God, thy power assume,
Who wast, and art, and art to come: 
Jesus, the Lamb, who once was slain,
For ever live, for ever reign.

3 The angry nations fret and roar,
That they can slay the saints no more;
On wings of vengeance flies our God
To pay the long arrears of blood.

4 Now must the rising dead appear,
Now the decisive sentence hear;
Now the dear martyrs of the Lord
Receive an infinite reward.

Hymn 1:66. 
Christ the King at his table, Cant. (Transcriber’s Note: 
Song of Solomon) 1. 2-5 12 13 17.

1 Let him embrace my soul, and prove Mine interest in his heavenly love:  The voice that tells me, “Thou art mine,” Exceeds the blessings of the vine.

2 On thee th’ anointing Spirit came,
And spreads the savour of thy name;
That oil of gladness and of grace
Draws virgin souls to meet thy face.

3 Jesus, allure me by thy charms,
My soul shall fly into thine arms,
Our wandering feet thy favours bring
To the fair chambers of the King.

4 [Wonder and pleasure tune our voice
To speak thy praises and our joys: 
Our memory keeps this love of thine
Beyond the taste of richest wine.]

5 Tho’ in ourselves deform’d we are,
And black as Kedar tent appear,
Yet when we put thy beauties on,
Fair as the courts of Solomon.

6 While at his table sits the King,
He loves to see us smile and sing;
Our graces are our best perfume,
And breathe like spikenard round the room.]

7 As myrrh new bleeding from the tree,
Such is a dying Christ to me;
And while he makes my soul his guest,
My bosom, Lord, shall be thy rest.

8 [No beams of cedar or of fir
Can with thy courts on earth compare;
And here we wait until thy love
Raise us to nobler seats above.]