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All their talking, reading, writing,
'Tis the secret fear of sinning
Whispers soft within my breast; "Choice befits not thy condition, Acquiescence suits thee best."
Henceforth, the repose and pleasure
Quarreling with thy decrees; Wayward nature finds the occasion,— 'Tis her folly and disease.
Night, with its sublime enjoyments,
Neither time nor place impedes;
ON THE SAME.
NIGHT! how I love thy silent shades,
My spirits they compose; The bliss of heaven my soul pervades, In spite of all my woes.
While sleep instils her poppy dews
I watch, to meditate and muse,
And when I feel a God immense
With every proof he can dispense,
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,
How wretched is the creature's state
Who thwarts thy gracious power; Crush'd under sin's enormous weight,
Increasing every hour!
The night, when pass'd entire with thee, How luminous and clear!
Then sleep has no delights for me,
My Saviour! occupy me still
In this secure recess;
Let Reason slumber out the night;
THE JOY OF THE CROSS.
LONG plunged in sorrow, I resign
That hand shall wipe my streaming eyes,
Or into smiles of glad surprise
My sole possession is thy love;
I have no other store;
And though with fervent suit I pray,
My rapid hours pursue the course
By thy command, where'er I stray,
And if my sufferings may augment
It costs me no regret, that she,
I taste no sweets in you;
The Cross! Oh ravishment and bliss,— How grateful even its anguish is,
Its bitterness how sweet!
There every sense, and all the mind,
Tastes happiness complete.
Souls once enabled to disdain
Their dignity secure;
Self-love no grace in sorrow sees,
'Tis all the bliss she knows: But nobler aims true Love employ; In self-denial is her joy,
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 ! Oh tell me,-life is in thy voice,How much afflictions were thy choice, And sloth and ease thy scorn!