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The Book of Praise.
ccxxiv. As o'er the past my memory strays,
Why heaves the secret sigh ? Tis that I mourn departed days,
Still unprepared to die.
The world, and worldly things beloved, My anxious thoughts employed,
And time unhallow'd, unimproved, Presents a fearful void.
Yet, holy Father, wild despair Chase from my labouring breast!
Thy grace it is, which prompts the prayer; That grace can do the rest.
My life's brief remnant all be Thine !
And, when Thy sure decree Bids me this fleeting breath resign,
O, speed my soul to Thee ! Bishop Thomas Fanshaw Middleton. [1822. "I
ccxxv.
Forth from the dark and stormy sky, Lord ! to Thine altar's shade we fly: Forth from the world, its hope and fear. Saviour ! we seek Thy shelter here : Weary and weak, Thy grace we pray : Turn not, O Lord, Thy guests away!
Long have we roam'd in want and pain ; Long have we sought Thy rest in vain ; Wilder'd in doubt, in darkness lost, Long have our souls been tempest-tost : Low at Thy feet our sins we lay; Turn not, O Lord, Thy guests away!
Bishop Reginald Heber. 1827. |
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