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The heart, that values less its ease

Than it adores thy ways, In thine avenging anger sees

A subject of its praise.

Pleased I could lie, conceal'd and lost, In shades of central night;Not to avoid thy wrath, thou know'st, But lest I grieve thy sight.

Smite me, O thou, whom I provoke!

And I will love thee still: The well deserved and righteous stroke

Shall please me, though it kill.

Am I not worthy to sustain
The worst thou canst devise:

And dare I seek thy throne again,
And meet thy sacred eyes?

Far from afflicting, thou art kind;

And, in my saddest hours, An unction of thy grace I find,

Pervading all my powers.

Alas! thou sparest me yet again;

And, when thy wrath should move, Too gentle to endure my pain,

Thou soothest me with thy love.

I have no punishment to fear;

But, ah! that smile from thee Imparts a pang far more severe

Than woe itself would be.

THE SOUL THAT LOVES GOD FINDS HIM
EVERY WHERE.

Oh thou, by long experience tried,
Near whom no grief can long abide;
My love! how full of sweet content
I pass my years of banishment!

All scenes alike engaging prove
To souls impress'd with sacred love!
Where'er they dwell, they dwell in thee;
In heaven, in earth, or on the sea.

To me remains nor place nor time;
My country is in every clime;
I can be calm and free from care
On any shore, since God is there.

While place we seek, or place we shun,
The soul finds happiness in none;
But with a God to guide our way,
'Tis equal joy to go or stay.

Could I be cast where thou art not,
That were indeed a dreadful lot;
But regions none remote I call,
Secure of finding God in all.

My country, Lord, art thou alone;
Nor other can I claim or own;
The point where all my wishes meet;
My law, my love, life's only sweet!

I hold by nothing here below;

Appoint my journey, and I go;

Though pierced by scorn, oppress'd by pride,

I feel thee good—feel nought beside.

No frowns of men can hurtful prove
To souls on fire with heavenly love;
Though men and devils both condemn,
No gloomy days arise from them.

Ah then! to his embrace repair;
My soul, thou art no stranger there;
There love divine shall be thy guard,
And peace and safety thy reward.

THE TESTIMONY OF DIVINE ADOPTION.

How happy are the new-born race;
Partakers of adopting grace;How pure the bliss they share!
Hid from the world and all its eyes,
Within their heart the blessing lies, And conscience feels it there.

The moment we believe, 'tis ours;
And if we love with all our powers

The God from whom it came;
And if we serve with hearts sincere,
'Tis still discernible and clear,

An undisputed claim.

But, ah! if foul and wilful sin
Stain and dishonour us within,

Farewell the joy we knew;
Again the slaves of nature's sway,
In labyrinths of our own we stray,

Without a guide or clue.

The chaste and pure, who fear to grieve
The gracious Spirit they receive,

His work distinctly trace:
And, strong in undissembling love,
Boldly assert and clearly prove

Their hearts his dwelling place.

Oh messenger of dear delight,
Whose voice dispels the deepest night,

Sweet peace-proclaiming Dove! With thee at hand, to soothe our pains, No wish unsatisfied remains,

No task but that of love.

'Tis love unites what sin divides;
The centre, where all bliss resides;

To which the soul once brought,
Reclining on the first great Cause,
From his abounding sweetness draws

Peace passing human thought.

Sorrow foregoes its nature there,
And life assumes a tranquil air,

Divested of its woes; There sovereign goodness soothes the breast, Till then incapable of rest,

In sacred sure repose.

DIVINE LOVE ENDURES NO RIVAL.

Love is the Lord whom I obey,
Whose will transported I perform;
The centre of my rest, my stay,
Love's all in all to me, myself a worm.

For uncreated charms I burn,
Oppress'd by slavish fear no more;
For one in whom I may discern,
E'en when he frowns, a sweetness I adore.

He little loves him who complains,
And finds him rigorous and severe;
His heart is sordid, and he feigns,
Though loud in boasting of a soul sincere.

Love causes grief, but 'tis to move
And stimulate the slumbering mind;
And he has never tasted love,
Who shuns a pang so graciously design'd.

Sweet is the cross, above all sweets,
To souls enamour'd with thy smiles;
The keenest woe life ever meets,
Love strips of all its terrors, and beguiles.

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