'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours; * * If Wisdom's friend, her best; if not, worst foe. * YOUNG. Be it my only wisdom here To serve the Lord with filial fear, His gracious power may I display, O may I still from sin depart! And let me through Thy spirit know, To glorify my God below, And find my way to heaven. I have no skill the snare to shun, But Thou art greater than my heart. Foolish, and impotent, and blind, Lead me a way I have not known; Bring me where I my heaven may find, The heaven of loving Thee alone. Enlarge my heart to make Thee room; The crooked then shall straight become: WESLEY. O Saviour! I pant for the hour, When uprais'd on the wing of Thy pow'r, When, when will the clouds roll away, CUNNINGHAM. From the deepest deep of sin, O my Saviour, Thou didst come, From Thy bless'd and brilliant home, From the deep of holy light, Plunging into shades of night. Through the mists of twilight grey, Bear me with Thee into day ; Strengthen Thou my feeble sight, Deep and deeper still to see Into Thy deep of purity; Till I reach the glorious place Where I view Thee face to face. "THOUGHTS OF PEACE." As ground, when parch'd with summer's heat, Catch Thy each word, and feel its power: O let nought in our hearts remain, But this great truth-the Lamb was slain! WESLEY. Lord, my soul hath heard Thy voice, Thine in every thought and word, What am I, that Thou should'st bend What am I, that Thou should'st pour Wisdom on my feeble soul, Plant in me Thy faith, and more, Lord, I fling me at Thy feet, Whence the streams of life are poured; Thinking on the glorious wings On which our nature upward soared. All my being, bleeding Lamb, To Thy keeping I resign; All I have, and all I am, From this day are only Thine! Knowledge, feeling, genius, thought, All wherein my heart had pride, Now in humble faith are brought, Unto Thee, the Crucified. M. A. BROWNE. Divine Historian of man's heart! That wisdom high, and pure, Her misery, and its cure. Spirit of truth! celestial Guide! Quell Thou this inward strife, "INVALID'S HYMN BOOK." Jesus! as a little child, At Thy footstool I sit down : By man's glosses unbeguiled. Learning truth from Thee alone; Lord! how strait soe'er the gate, Here I knock, and here I wait. "INVALID'S HYMN BOOK." There is a lesson in each flower, CUNNINGHAM. |