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202 The Book of Praise.
Preserve me from my calling's snare, And hide my simple heart above,
Above the thorns of choking care, The gilded baits of worldly love.
Thee may I set at my right hand,
Whose eyes mine inmost substance see,
And labour on at Thy command, And offer all my works to Thee.
Give me to bear Thy easy yoke, And every moment watch and pray ;
And still to things eternal look, And hasten to Thy glorious day.
For Thee delightfully employ
Whate'er Thy bounteous grace hath given, And run my course with even joy,
And closely walk with Thee to Heaven.
Charles Wesley. 1749. |
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CLXXXVI.
Now it belongs not to my care
Whether I die or live ; To love and serve Thee is my share,
And this Thy grace must give.
If death shall bruise this springing seed
Before it come to fruit, The will with Thee goes for the deed.
Thy life was in the root.
Would I long bear my heavy load, And keep my sorrows long ?
Would I long sin against my God, And His dear mercy wrona? |
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