WHAT thousands never knew the road! What thousands hate it when 'tis known! None but the chosen tribes of God Will seek or choose it for their own. A thousand ways in ruin end, No more I ask or hope to find That feeds where thorns and thistles grow. The joy that fades is not for me, I seek immortal joys above; There glory without end shall be The bright reward of faith and love. Cleave to the world, ye sordid worms, Contented lick your native dust! But God shall fight with all his storms, Against the idol of your trust. To keep the lamp alive, With oil we fill the bowl; 'Tis water makes the willow thrive, And grace that feeds the soul. The Lord's unsparing hand Beware of Peter's word 38, "I never will deny thee, Lord,"- Man's wisdom is to seek His strength in God alone; Retreat beneath his wings, And in his grace confide! This more exalts the King of kings 39 In Jesus is our store, Grace issues from his throne; Whoever says, "I want no more," Confesses he has none. LXIV. NOT OF WORKS. GRACE, triumphant in the throne, your 38 Matthew, xxvi. 33. 39 John, vi. 29. Works of man, when made his plea, Never shall accepted be; Fruits of pride (vain-glorious worm!) Are the best he can perform. Self, the god his soul adores, Jesus is a slighted name, Then for rocks and hills to hide Still the boasting heart replies, But the grace that never can. LXV. PRAISE FOR FAITH. Of all the gifts thine hand bestows, Not heaven itself a richer knows Faith too, the blood-receiving grace, Else, sweetly as it suits our case, Till thou thy teaching power apply, Our hearts refuse to see, Shut out the view of thee. Blind to the merits of thy Son, Yet fly that hand from which alone We praise thee, and would praise thee more, The precious Saviour, and the power That makes Him precious too. LXVI. GRACE AND PROVIDENCE. ALMIGHTY King! whose wondrous hand Thy providence supplies my food, My streams of outward comfort came Either his hand preserves from pain, From Satan's malice shields my breast, Or overrules it for the best. Forgive the song that falls so low LXVII. I WILL PRAISE THE LORD AT ALL TIMES. WINTER has a joy for me, While the Saviour's charms I read, Hark! the turtle's plaintive song Summer has a thousand charms, What! has autumn left to say Tell me of his smiling face. Light appears with early dawn, While the sun makes haste to rise; See his bleeding beauties drawn On the blushes of the skies. Evening with a silent pace, Slowly moving in the west, |