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Great God! how awful is the scene !
And can I trifle life away?
Are shiver'd when they're torn away!
Which ask immortal strength to break! How with new terrors have ye arm’d, That power whose slightest glance alarm’d!
How many deaths of make!
Yet, dumb with wonder, I behold
Forget, or scorn, the laws of death;
Each thinks he draws immortal breath!
Each, blind to fate's approaching hour,
And slumbering danger dares provoke :
And feels an unexpected stroke!
Yet a few years, or days perhaps,
And time to me shall be no more;
And life's fantastic dream be o'er.
Alas, I touch the dreadful brink !
And gloomy darkness wraps me round !
And constant at my board is found !
But then, this spark that warms, that guides, That lives, that thinks-what fate betides?
Can this be dust?-a kneaded clod! This yield to death! the soul, the mind, That measures heaven, and mounts the wind,
That knows at once itself and God!
Great cause of all, above, below,-
Thou art immortal and divine!
And bids eternity be mine!
Transporting thought! but am I sure
Joys only to the just decreed !-
That endless misery may succeed !
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
Bridal of earth and sky,
For thou, alas ! must die.
Sweet rose, in air whose odours wave,
And colour charms the eye, Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou, alas ! must die.
Sweet spring, of days and roses made,
Whose charms for beauty vie, Thy days depart, thy roses fade,
Thou too, alas! must die.
Be wise then, Christian, while you may,
For swiftly time is flying ; The thoughtless man, that laughs to-day,
Tomorrow will be dying.
My stock lies dead, and no increase
Drop from above.
Drop from above. The dew doth every morning fall; And shall the dew outstrip thy dove? The dew, for which grass cannot call,
Drops from above. Death is still working like a mole, And digs my grave at each remove: Let grace work too, and on my soul
Drop from above. Sin is still hammering my heart, Unto a hardness void of love: Let supplying grace, to cross his art,
Drop from above. O come! for thou dost know the way; Or, if to me thou wilt not move, Remove me where I need not say
Drop from above!
From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral sand, Where Afric's sunny fountains, Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, From many a balmy plain They call us to deliver Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes Blow soft on Ceylon's isle, Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile: In vain with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are shewn, The Heathen in his blindness Bows down to wood and stone. Shall we whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high ; Shall we to man benighted The lamp of life deny? Salvation! oh, Salvation ! The joyful sound proclaim Till each remotest nation Has learnt Messiah's name. Waft, waft ye winds his story, And you ye waters roll,