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ITH all the pow'rs my poor soul hath
Thus low, my God, I bow to Thee,
Whom too much love bowed low for me.
Down, busy sense; discourses, die;
Faith is my eye, faith strength affords
Oh dear memorial of that death
Which still survives, and gives us breath!
Come, glorious Lord, my hopes increase,
When this dry soul, these eyes shall see
OND shortness of the mistaken world!
Unhappy crossness of proud mortality!
To abound in our own sense we think is wisdom, and virtue to do what we have a mind to.
While things go on as we think fit, and heaven affords us all we wish;
While we have plenty of food and clothes, and whatever our superfluity calls convenient; While all our humours go on unchecked, and nothing crosses them in ourselves or friends
We make a shift to live without murmuring, and think ourselves resigned because we have nothing to complain of.
But if the unerring wisdom of our great Governor disposes of things in another order: If we feed more hardly, or are clothed more
coarsely; if we are not what we have been, or what we would be
We presently repine, and, in our vain hearts, nourish seeds of discontent.
Unmindful what we are-mere dust the best of us, and to whom nothing at all is due;
Unmindful what the world is at the worst, never so bad but we may be saints in it, if not wanting to the grace of God;
Unmindful of the promises of God, and of that hundredfold which is ensured to all those who leave anything for Christ.
But our God sees not as we see; and that which is highly esteemed of by us, is even an abomination in His sight;
His thoughts are not as our thoughts; and His ways are in the darkness, so that the vulture's eye cannot search them out:
For His whole work is to do wonders, and by these He, being invisible in person, declares His presence on the earth.
He therefore fails not to exalt the humble and the meek, when He puts down the mighty