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The billows swell, the winds are high,
LOOKING UPWARDS IN A STORM.
God of my life, to thee I call,
* Psalm lxix. 15.
Friend of the friendless and the faint!
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH,
My soul is sad, and much dismay’d,
See, Lord, what legions of my foes, With fierce Apollyon at their head, My heavenly pilgrimage oppose !
* Psalm xl. 17.
See, from the ever burning lake,
How like a smoky cloud they rise ! With horrid blasts my soul they shake,
With storms of blasphemies and lies. Their fiery arrows reach the mark,*
My throbbing heart with anguish tear; Each lights upon a kindred spark,
And finds abundant fuel there. I hate the thought that wrongs the Lord; Oh! I would drive it from
breast, With thy own sharp two-edged sword,
Far as the east is from the west. Come, then, and chase the cruel host,
Heal the deep wounds I have received ! Nor let the powers of darkness boast,
That I am foild, and thou art grieved !
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. Straight I upbraid my wandering heart,
And blush that I should ever be Thus prone
to act so base a part, Or harbour one hard thought of thee!
* Ephes. vi. 16.
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 tried, 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. Thou art as ready to forgive
As I am ready to repine; Thou, therefore, all the praise receive ;
Be shame and self-abhorrence mine.
MOURNING AND LONGING.
The Saviour hides his face !
My spirit thirsts to prove
And never fading love.
What glories shine in him,
Pants for the living stream!
What trifles tease me now!
They swarm like summer flies,
And swim before my eyes.
Without the Sabbath's Lord !
And wait upon the word !
How few delight my taste!
But mourn the vintage past.
Still hope to be supplied ;
Nor shall I be denied.
Though I am but a worm,
Unworthy of his care,
And grant me all my prayer.
Dear Lord ! accept a sinful heart,
Which of itself complains, And mourns, with much and frequent smart,
The evil it contains.