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Himne Inggris

Mazmur 49:1-20

• [Mzm 49:1] Hear This, All Ye Peo­ple, Hear

  Hear this, all ye people, hear, Earth’s inhabitants, give ear; All of high and low degree, Rich and poor, give heed to me. Truth with all my heart I seek, And my mouth shall wisdom speak; Hearken while in lyric strain I make hidden wisdom plain. Why should I to fear give way When I see the evil day, When with wickedness my foes Shall surround me and oppose? They that trust in treasured gold, Though they boast of wealth untold, None can bid his brother live, None to God a ransom give. If from death one would be free And corruption never see, Costly is life’s ransom price, Far beyond all sacrifice.

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  source: Cyberhymnal

• [Mzm 49:5] Why Should I Fear In Evil Days

  Why should I fear in evil days, With snares encompassed all around? What trust can transient treasures raise For them in riches who abound? His brother who from death can save? What wealth can ransom him from God? What mine of gold defraud the grave? What hoards but vanish at His nod? To live forever is their dream; Their houses by their name they call; While, borne by time’s relentless stream, Around them wise and foolish fall; Their riches others must divide; They plant, but others reap the fruit; In honor man cannot abide, To death devoted, like the brute. This is their folly, this their way; And yet in this their sons delight; Like sheep, of death the destined prey, The future scorn of the upright; The grave their beauty shall consume, Their dwellings never see them more; But God shall raise me from the tomb, And life for endless time restore. What though thy foe in wealth increase, And fame and glory crown his head? Fear not, for all at death shall cease, Nor fame, nor glory, crown the dead: While prosp’ring all around thee smiled, Yet to the grave shalt thou descend; The senseless pride of fortune’s child Shall share the brute creation’s end.

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  source: Cyberhymnal

• [Mzm 49:6] No More, Dear Savior, Will I Boast

  No more, dear Savior, will I boast Of beauty, wealth, or loud applause, The world has all its glories lost, Amid the triumphs of the cross. In every feature of Thy face Beauty her fairest charms displays; Truth, wisdom, majesty, and grace, Shine thence in sweetly mingled rays. Thy wealth the pow’r of thought transcends, ’Tis vast, immense, and all divine; Thy empire, Lord, o’er all extends— The sun, the moon, the stars are Thine. Yet, oh how marvelous the sight! I see Thee on a cross expire; Thy Godhead veiled in sable night, And angels from the scene retire.

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  source: Cyberhymnal

• [Mzm 49:10] Dust To Dust, The Mort­al Dies

  Dust to dust, the mortal dies, Both the foolish and the wise; None forever can remain, Each must leave his hoarded gain. Yet within their heart they say That their houses are for aye, That their dwelling places grand Shall for generations stand. To their lands they give their name In the hope of lasting fame, But man’s honor quickly flies, Like the lowly beast he dies. Though such folly mark their way, Men approve of what they say; Death their shepherd, they the sheep, He within his fold will keep. O’er them soon shall rule the just, All their beauty turn to dust; God my waiting soul shall save, He will raise me from the grave. Let no fear disturb your peace Though one’s house and wealth increase; Death shall end his fleeting day, He shall carry naught away. Though in life he wealth attained, Though the praise of men he gained, He shall join those gone before, Where the light shall shine no more. Crowned with honor though he be, Highly gifted, strong and free, If he be not truly wise, Man is like the beast that dies.

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  source: Cyberhymnal

• [Mzm 49:15] Hark! From The Tombs A Dole­ful Sound

  Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound; My ears, attend the cry; “Ye living men, come view the ground Where you must shortly lie. “Princes, this clay must be your bed, In spite of all your towers; The tall, the wise, the rev’rend head Must lie as low as ours!” Great God! is this our certain doom? And are we still secure? Still walking downward to our tomb, And yet prepare no more? Grant us the powers of quick’ning grace, To fit our souls to fly, Then, when we drop this dying flesh, We’ll rise above the sky.

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  source: Cyberhymnal