Call for the elders of the church.

WHEN struggling on the bed of pain, And earth and all its joys are vain, How sweet, my God, to know thy pow r Sustains me in this trying hour.

I call the elders here, O Lord, To do according to thy word; And while the oil's by faith applied, Oh, may my soul be sanctified.

Then shall my cheerful, grateful tongue, In rapt'rous strains thy praise prolong; My ransom'd soul adore thy grace, And swifter run the heavn'ly race.

Or, should my days he near their end, And I through death my steps must wend, Then, O my Lord, receive me home, To mingle with the blood-wash'd throng.