COME, THOU FOUNT OF EVERY BLESSING (By: Robert Robinson: 1735-1790)

Robert Robinson became a Christian at the age of 20. (Another account says age 17.) He loved to read, but became a barber.
He worshiped in the same church as George Whitefield for a couple years. Soon, he felt called to start preaching. First, he was a Methodist minister, then became a Baptist minister. Articles he wrote on theology were published. He preached for many years, ministering to crowds of hundreds and had about 15 stations in the village of Cambridge where he lived.

But he eventually strayed and denied the deity of Christ, although prior to this, he published a great defense of it. He was influenced by Joseph Priestly. The last sermon he preached was in Priestly's church, mocking and ridiculing the doctrine of the trinity.
A few days later, he was found dead in bed of the home of a prominent member of Priestly's church, where he had been staying. Many say it was the pride of life that made him lose his grip on theology and drift so far away.

But there is the account of an encounter near his last days: One day, he met a wo­man who was stu­dy­ing a hymn­al, and she asked how he liked the hymn she was hum­ming. In tears, he re­plied, “Madam, I am the poor un­hap­py man who wrote that hymn ma­ny years ago, and I would give a thou­sand worlds, if I had them, to en­joy the feel­ings I had then.”


Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Sorrowing I shall be in spirit,
Till released from flesh and sin,
Yet from what I do inherit,
Here Thy praises I’ll begin;
Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.

Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood;
How His kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell,
Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me
I cannot proclaim it well.

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless day.



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