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When darkness long has veil'd my mind,
And smiling day once more appears, Then, my Redeemer, then I find,
The folly of my doubts and fears. Strait I upbraid my wandering heart,
And blush that I should ever be Thus prone to act so base a part,
Or harbour one base thought of thee. Oh! let me then at length be taught
What I am still so slow to learn, That God is love, and changes not
Nor knows the shadow of a turn. Sweet truth, and easy to repeat,
But when my faith is sharply try'd, I find myself a learner yet,
Unskilful, weak, and apt to slide. But, O my Lord, one look from thee,
Subdues the disobedient will, Drives doubt and discontent away,
And thy rebellious worm is still.
As I am ready to repine;
Be shame, and self abhorrence mine.
There is a fountain fill'd with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins ! And sinners, plung'd beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains. The dying thief rejoic'd to see
That fountain in his day;
Wash all my sins away.
Shall never lose its pow'r,
Be sav'd, to sin no more.
Thy flowing wounds supply,
And shall be till I die.
Then in a nobler, sweeter song,
I'll sing thy power to save;
Lies silent in the grave.
Unworthy though I be,
'Tis strung, and tun'd, for endless years,
And form’d by pow'r divine,
No other name but thine.
A flattering prospect shows :
And undisturbed repose.
(As ancient fables say), Castles, and groves, and music sweet, The senses of the traveller meet,
And stop him in his way.
'Twas but enchanted ground; Thus if the Lord our spirit touch, The world, which promised us so much,
A wilderness is found.
In such a wretched place ;
But He whose mercy breaks the charm,
And bids us seek his face.
By this beloved friend;
And glory at the end.
XXXVII. Dear is the hallow'd spot to me, When village bells awake the day; And, by their sacred minstrelsy, Call me from earthly cares away. And dear to me the winged hour, Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord ! To feel devotion's soothing power, And catch the manna of thy word. And dear to me the loud Amen, Which echoes through the blest abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God. And dear the rustic harmony, Sung with the pomp of village art; That holy, heav'nly melody, The music of a thankful heart.
In secret I have often pray'd,