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The Answer. 357
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CCCXXXVI.
O Thou, whose tender mercy hears
Contrition's humble sigh, Whose hand indulgent wipes the tears
From sorrow's weeping eye ;
See, low before Thy throne of grace,
A wretched wanderer mourn ; Hast Thou not bid me seek Thy face ?
Hast Thou not said, Return ?
And shall my guilty fears prevail
To drive me from Thy feet ? Oh ! let not this dear refuge fail,
This only safe retreat!
Absent from Thee, my Guide, my Light,
Without one cheering ray, Through dangers, fears, and gloomy night,
How desolate my way !
O shine on this benighted heart,
With beams of mercy shine ! And let Thy healing voice impart
A taste of joys Divine !
Thy presence only can bestow
Delights which never cloy : Be this my solace here below,
And my eternal joy !
Anne Steele. 1760. |
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