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VI.

JOY.

"In whom, though now ye see Him not, yet believing, ye rejoice with joy unspeakable, and full of glory." -I PET. i. 8.)

CCCLXXVII.

My God, the Spring of all my joys,
The Life of my delights,

The Glory of my brightest days,
And Comfort of my nights:

In darkest shades if He appear,
My dawning is begun ;

He is my soul's sweet Morning-star,

And He my rising Sun.

The opening heavens around me shine
With beams of sacred bliss,

While Jesus shows, His heart is mine,
And whispers, I am His.

My soul would leave this heavy clay
At that transporting word,
Run up with joy the shining way
T'embrace my dearest Lord.

Fearless of hell and ghastly death,
I'd break through every foe:
The wings of love and arms of faith
Should bear me conqueror through.
Isaac Watts. 1709.

CCCLXXVIII.

Far from the world, O Lord, I flee,
From strife and tumult far;

From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.

The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree,
And seem by Thy sweet bounty made
For those who follow Thee.

There, if Thy Spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,

Oh with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God!

There, like the nightingale, she pours

Her solitary lays,

Nor asks a witness of her song,

Nor thirsts for human praise.

Author and Guardian of my life;
Sweet Source of light Divine;
And, all harmonious names in one.
My Saviour! Thou art mine!

What thanks I owe Thee, and what love,
A boundless, endless store,

Shall echo through the realms above

When time shall be no more!

William Cowper. 1779.

CCCLXXIX.

There's not a bird, with lonely nest
In pathless wood or mountain crest,
Nor meaner thing, which does not share,
O God! in Thy paternal care!

There's not a being now accurst,
Who did not taste Thy goodness first;
And every joy the wicked see
Received its origin from Thee.

Each barren crag, each desert rude,
Holds Thee within its solitude;

And Thou dost bless the wanderer there,
Who makes his solitary prayer.

In busy mart and crowded street,
No less than in the still retreat,

Thou, Lord, art near, our souls to bless
With all a parent's tenderness!

And every moment still doth bring
Thy blessings on its loaded wing;

Widely they spread through earth and sky,
And last to all eternity!

Through all creation let Thy Name
Be echoed with a glad acclaim !
That let the grateful Churches sing;
With that let heaven for ever ring!

And we, where'er our lot is cast,
While life and thought and feeling last,
Through all our years, in every place,
Will bless Thee for Thy boundless grace!
Baptist Wriothesley Noel. [1841,]

CCCLXXX.

The child leans on its parent's breast,
Leaves there its cares, and is at rest;
The bird sits singing by his nest,

And tells aloud

His trust in God, and so is blest
'Neath every cloud.

He has no store, he sows no seed ;
Yet sings aloud, and doth not heed;
By flowing stream or grassy mead
He sings to shame

Men, who forget, in fear of need,

A Father's Name..

The heart that trusts for ever sings,
And feels as light as it had wings;
A well of peace within it springs :

Come good or ill,

Whate'er to-day, to-morrow brings,

It is His will!

Isaac Williams. [1842.]

CCCLXXXI.

Why comes this fragrance on the summer breeze, The blended tribute of ten thousand flowers,

To me, a frequent wanderer 'inid the trees

That form these gay, though solitary bowers?

One answer is around, beneath, above;
The echo of the voice, that God is Love!

Why bursts such melody from tree and bush,
The overflowing of each songster's heart,
So filling mine, that it can scarcely hush
Awhile to listen, but would take its part?
'Tis but one song I hear where'er I rove,
Though countless be the notes, that God is Love!

Why leaps the streamlet down the mountain's side.
Hastening so swiftly to the vale beneath,
To cheer the shepherd's thirsty flock, or glide
Where the hot sun has left a faded wreath,
Or, rippling, aid the music of the grove?
Its own glad voice replies, that God is Love!

In starry heavens, at the midnight hour,

In ever-varying hues at morning's dawn, In the fair bow athwart the falling shower,

In forest, river, lake, rock, hill, and lawn, One truth is written: all conspire to prove, What grace of old reveal'd, that God is Love!

Nor less this pulse of health, far glancing eye,
And heart so moved with beauty, perfume, song,
This spirit, soaring through a gorgeous sky,
Or diving ocean's coral caves among,
Fleeter than darting fish or startled dove;
All, all declare the same, that God is Love!

Is it a fallen world on which I gaze?
Am I as deeply fallen as the rest,
Yet joys partaking, past my utmost praise,
Instead of wandering forlorn, unblest?

It is as if an unseen spirit strove

To grave upon my heart, that God is Love!

Yet wouldst thou see, my soul, this truth display'd In characters which wondering angels read,

And read, adoring; go, imploring aid

To gaze with faith, behold the Saviour bleed! Thy God, in human form! O, what can prove, If this suffice thee not, that God is Love?

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