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" THOUGH HE SHOULD SLAY ME, YET WILL I TRUST
Faith, like a simple, unsuspecting child,
Serenely resting on its mother's arm,
Sleeps on His bosom, and expects no harm :
Receives with joy the promises He makes,
Nor questions of His purpose or His power ;
The Lord hath said it, and there needs no more.
However deep be the mysterious word,
However dark, she disbelieves it not ;
And “ It is written,” answers every doubt.
In vain, with rude and overwhelming force,
Conscience repeats her tale of misery ;
Urge the worn spirit to despair and die.
As evening's pale and solitary star
But brightens while the darkness gathers round; So Faith, unmoved amidst surrounding storms,
Is fairest seen in darkness most profound.
“ NEVERTHELESS, NOT AS I WILL, BUT AS THOU WILT.”
GRACE does not steel the faithful heart,
That it should know no ill ;
And feel its sharpness still.
But how unlike the Christian's tears,
To those the world must shed !
As the heart from which they sped.
The saint may be compelled to meet
Misfortune's saddest blow;
The keenest pang of woe :
But, ever as the wound is given,
There is a hand unseen,
And hide where it has been.
The Christian would not have his lot
Be other than it is ;
He knows that world is his.
He knows that He who gave the best,,
Will give him all beside ;
Is evil, if denied.
When clouds or sorrow gather round,
His bosom owns no fear ;
His God will still be there.
And when the threatened storm has burst,
Whate'er the trial be,
• Be still, for it is He !'
Poor nature, ever weak, will shrink
From the afflictive stroke;
Impatient nature spoke.
His grateful bosom quickly learns
Its sorrows to disown ;
The choice was not his own.
“ SEEING, THEN, THAT ALL THESE THINGS SHALL BE
Ask the bird that soars on high,
He could teach, if he might say,
Lesser objects lost to view,
Doubt yon, then, why they who rise