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And when I feel a God immense
His favour to my heart;
My native meanness I lament,
His purpose and his course he keeps;
Treads all my reasonings down; Commands me out of nature's deeps,
And hides me in his own.
When in the dust, its proper place,
Thou whom I serve, and whose I am,
Refines, and still refines my flame,
How wretched is the creature's state
How luminous and clear!
Lest thou shouldst disappear.
My Saviour! occupy me still
In this secure recess;
My joy shall not be less:
Let reason slumber out the night;
But if thou deign to make
Ah, keep my heart awake!
THE JOY OF THE CROSS.
Long- plunged in sorrow, I resign
My sole possession is thy love;
I have no other store;
I ask thee nothing more.
My rapid hours pursue the course
And I thy sovereign will,
And doom'd to suffer still.
By thy command, where'er I stray,
A never-failing friend;
Let sorrow still attend!
It costs me no regret, that she,
Who follow'd Christ, should follow me;
And though, where'er she goes, Thorns spring spontaneous at her feet, I love her, and extract a sweet
From all my bitter woes.
Adieu! ye vain delights of earth;
I taste no sweets in you;
And Jesus thought so too.
The cross! Oh ravishment and bliss— How grateful e'en its anguish is;
Its bitterness how sweet! There every sense, and all the mind, In all her faculties refined,
Tastes happiness complete.
Souls once enabled to disdain
The fever of desire is pass'd,
Self-love no grace in sorrow sees,
'Tis all the bliss she knows:
In suffering her repose.
Sorrow and love go side by side;
Their heaven-appointed bands;
Disjoin their wedded hands.
Jesus, avenger of our fall,
The cross has ever borne!
And sloth and ease thy scorn!
Thy choice and mine shall be the same,
Which must for ever blaze!
My portion and my praise.
JOY IN MAETYEDOM.
Sweet tenants of this grove!Who sing, without design,
In unison with mine:
O thou! whose sacred charms
These hearts so seldom love, Although thy beauty warms
And blesses all above; How slow are human things,
To choose their happiest lot; All-glorious King of kings,
Say why we love thee not?
This heart, that cannot rest,
Shall thine for ever prove; Though bleeding and distress'd,
Yet joyful in thy love: 'Tis happy, though it breaks
Beneath thy chastening hand; And speechless, yet it speaks
What thou canst understand.