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The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.
Th’ unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every

The works of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly, to the list’ning earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestial ball ?
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found ?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing, as they shine,
“The hand that made us is divine."




UNTHINKING, idle, wild, and young,
I laughed, and talked, and danced, and sung :
And proud of health, of freedom vain,
Dreamed not of sorrow, care, or pain;
Concluding in those hours of glee,
That all the world was made for me.
But when the days of trial came,
When sickness shook this trembling frame
When folly's gay pursuits were o'er,
And I could dance and sing no more,
It then occurred, how sad 'twould be,
Were this world only made for me!



The golden palace of my God
Towering above the clouds I see :
Beyond the cherub's bright abode,
Higher than angels' thoughts can be,
How can I in those courts appear
Without a wedding garment on?
Conduct me, Thou life-giver, there,
Conduct me to Thy glorious throne !
And clothe me with thy robes of light,
And lead me through sin's darksome night.

My Saviour and my God.


When the dang’rous rocks are past,

When the threat'ning tempests cease, Oh! how sweet to rest at last

In a silent port of peace ! Though that port may be unknown,

Though no chart its name may bear, Brightly beams its light on one,

Blest to find his refuge there. Life! thou art the storm-the rock

Death ! the friendly port thou art; Haven from the tempest's shock

Welcoming the wand'rer's heart.


« Child of man, whose seed below,

Must fulfil their race of woe;
Heir of want, and doubt, and pain,
Does thy fainting heart complain?
Oh! in thought, one night recal,
The night of grief in Herod's hall;
There I bore the vengeance due,
Freely bore it all for

“ Child of dust, corruption's son,

By pride deceiv'd, by pride undone,
Willing captive, yet be free,
Take my yoke, and learn of me.

I, of heav'n and earth, the Lord,
God with God, the eternal word,
I forsook my Father's side,

Toild and wept, and bled, and died. “ Child of doubt, does fear surprise,

Vexing thoughts within thee rise;
Wond'ring, murm'ring, dost thou gaze
On evil men and evil days?
Oh! if darkness round thee lower,
Darker far my dying hour,
Which bade that fearful cry awake,

My God, my God, dost thou forsake? “ Child of sin, by guilt oppress’d,

Heaves at last thy throbbing breast?
Hast thou felt the mourner's part,
Fear'st thou now thy failing heart?
Bear thee on, belov'd of God,
Tread the path thy Saviour trod;
He the tempter's power hath known,

He hath pour'd the garden groan. “ Child of heav'n, by me restor’d,

Love thy Saviour, serve thy Lord;
Seal'd with that mysterious name,
Bear thy cross, and scorn the shame,
Then, like me, thy conflict o'er,
Thou shalt rise to sleep no more;
Partner of my purchas'd throne,
One in joy, in glory one.”


As panting in the sultry beam
The hart desires the cooling stream,
So to Thy presence, Lord, I flee,
So longs my soul, O God! for Thee ;
Athirst to taste Thy living grace,
And see Thy glory face to face.

But rising griefs distress my soul,
And tears on tears successive roll:
For many an evil voice is near
To chide my woe, and mock my fear,
And silent memory weeps alone,
O'er hours of peace and gladness flown.

For I have walked the happy round
That circles Sion's holy ground,
And gladly swell’d the choral lays
That hymn'd my great Redeemer's praise,
What time the hallow'd arch along
Responsive swell’d the solemn song.

Ah! why, by passing clouds oppress’d,
Should vexing thoughts distract thy breast?
Turn, turn to Him, in every pain,
Whom never suppliant sought in vain;
Thy strength, in joy's ecstatic day,
Thy hope, when joy has pass'd away.

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