Away, My Unbelieving Fear!
Father, We Humbly Pray
Fixed upon God as on a Rock
God, Creator and Preserver
My Soul Once Had Its Plenteous Years
O God, Who Lovest to Abide
Should Famine o’er the Mourning Field
Sinners How Blest, The
Though the Fig Tree Shall Not Blossom
To God Most Awful and Most High
To Thee, in Youth’s Bright Morning
What Our Father Does Is Well
What Though No Flowers the Fig Tree Clothe
When Dreadful o’er a Mourning Land
Ye Servants of the Lord (Wesley)