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He will comfort on thee shed;
In thy sickness make thy bed.
Then, though sickness long abide,
Sorrow soon will flee away;
God in anger doth not chide
Those who seek the perfect way;
But doth chasten in his love,
Ere he calls to realms above. 208
F life in sorrow must be spent,
And meekly wait my last remove,
Desiring only trustful love.
No bliss I'll seek, but to fulfil,
In life, in death, thy perfect will ;
No succours in my woes I want,
But what my Lord is pleased to grant.
Our days are number'd ; let us spare
Our anxious hearts a needless care:
'Tis thine to number out our days;
'Tis ours to give them to thy praise.
Faith is our only business here,
Faith simple, constant, and sincere;
Oh, blessed days thy servants see,
Thus spent, O Lord, in pleasing thee! 209
CT is thy hand, my God!
I bow beneath thy chast' ning rod;
I would not murmur, Lord,
Before thee I am dumb !
Lest I should breathe one murmuring word,
To thee for help I come.
My God! thy name is love,
A Father's hand is thine;
With tearful eye I look above,
And cry, “Thy will be mine."
I know thy will is right,
Though it may seem severe ;
Thy path is still unsullied light,
Though dark it oft appear.
Jesus for me hath died;
Thy Son thou didst not spare ;
His pierced hands, his bleeding side,
Thy love for me declare.
Here my poor heart can rest,
My God! it cleaves to thee;
Thy will is love, thine end is blest,
All work for good to me. 210
ESUS, I love thee, thou dost know
Almost too deep to bear!
But thou wilt guide me by thy hand,
Strong in thy strength I yet may stand,
Still resting in thy care.
Thou wilt not leave the weakest one:
Though every outward hope be gone,
I know that thou art nigh;
Man knows not what my sufferings are ;
He cannot know; he would not care ;
But thou art sympathy.
Thou wilt not let my footsteps fail,
Nor let me, journeying through this vale,
Bring on thy gospel shame;
Tho' nought is mine but sin and woe,
Yet in thy righteousness I go,
And triumph in thy name.
And when the bitter cup is past,
And when I sink in death at last,
It is to be with thee;
To come with thee in clouds of heaven,
Ransom'd, pure, holy, thine, forgiven,
Ever to reign with thee.
Mis the Lord, I know it is;
Let him all his pleasure do;
'Tis enough if I am his;
Safe his people are, I know.
What can harm his people ? what!
His they are who changes not.
Trials are the lot of all,
Whom the Saviour owns as his :
Mine have been but few and small;
Yet my heart, how weak it is !
Ever ready to repine;
O what patience, Lord, is thine !
Thy compassion does not fail ;
Therefore I am suffer'd still;
Why this grace to one so frail ?
This I know not~'tis thy will.
'Tis thy will it should be so;
This is all I ask to know.
Sure I am, beyond a doubt,
If what I deserve were mine,
From thy presence, Lord, cast out,
Far from thee, and far from thine,
I should live, and I should be,
Wretched through eternity.
Let not thy compassion fail,
Till the end of strife I see;
Still let grace and love prevail,
And thy name a refuge be,
Till I reach the happy shore
Where thy saints offend no more.
WHY gracious presence, O my God,
My ev'ry wish contains;
With this beneath affliction's load,
My heart no more complains.
This can my ev'ry care control,
Gild each dark scene with light,
This is the sunshine of the soul,
Without it, all is night.
O happy scenes of pure delight!
Where thy full beams impart
Unclouded beauty to the sight,
And rapture to the heart.
Her part in those fair realms of bliss
My spirit longs to know :
My wishes terminate in this,
Nor can they rest below.
Lord, shall the breathings of my heart
Aspire in vain to thee?
Confirm my hope, that where thou art
I shall for ever be.
Then shall my cheerful spirit sing
The darksome hours away,
And rise on faith's expanded wing
To everlasting day. 213
THEN the Lord rebukes his servant,
'Tis to save and not destroy; 'Tis to make my spirit fervent,
"Tis to give me real joy; 'Tis to make me better know That my rest is not below. Shall I then repine at trials
By my Father's love decreed?
What if God had pour'd the vials
Of his wrath upon my
Death of sin the wages is,
All is mercy short of this.
Since the Lord has giv'n me reason
To expect a place above,
In affliction's sharpest season,
Let me own that God is love;
Let me own that all he does
From paternal kindness flows.
Shall I murmur at his dealings?
Shall I not his kindness trust?
Since he knows my frame and feelings,
And iemembers I am dust;
Shall I not receive the rod,
And confess the hand of God ?