« PreviousContinue »
My native meanness I lament,
Though most divinely fillid
That Deity can yield.
Treads all my reasonings down;
And hides me in his own.
When in the dust, its proper place,
Our pride of heart we lay ; 'Tis then a deluge of his grace
Bears all our fins away.
Thou whom I serve, and whose I am,
Whose influence from on high Refines, and still refines my flame,
And makes my fetters fly.
How wretched is the creature's state
Who thwarts thy gracious power ; Crush'd under sin's enormous weight,
Increasing every hour!
How luminous and clear !
Left thou shouldst disappear.
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!
32. THE yor OF THE CROSS.
ONG plunged in sorrow, I resign
Without reserve or fear;
Transform the falling tear.
My sole poffeffion is thy love;
I have no other store;
I ask thee nothing more.
And I thy sovereign will,
And doom'd to suffer still.
By thy command, where'er I stray,
A never failing friend;
Let Sorrow ftill attend !
It costs me no regret, that she,
ye vain delights of earth; Insipid sports and childish mirth,
I taste no sweets in you; Unknown delights are in the Cross, All joy beside to me is dross ;
And Jesus thought so too.
The Cross ! Oh ravishment and bliss
Its bitterness how sweet!
Tastes happiness complete.
Souls once enabled to disdain
Their dignity secure;
Is delicate and pure.
Self-love no grace in sorrow sees,
'Tis all the bliss she knows :
In suffering her repose.
Sorrow and Love
side by side ; Nor height nor depth can e'er divide
Their heaven-appointed bands; Those dear associates still are one, Nor till the race of life is run
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.
33. yor IN MARTYRDOM.
WEET tenants of this grove !
Who sing, without design,
A song of artless love, In unison with mine: These echoing shades return
Full many a note of ours, That wise ones cannot learn,
With all their boasted powers.
0 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.