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The Book of Praise.
CCCLVIII.
Source of good, whose power controls Every movement of our souls ; Wind that quickens where it blows ; Comforter of human woes ; Lamp of God, whose ray serene In the darkest night is seen ; Come, inspire my feeble strain, That I may not sing in vain !
God's own Finger, skill'd to teach Tongues of every land and speech; Balsam of the wounded soul, Binding up, and making whole ; Flame of pure and holy love ; Strength of all that live and move •, Come ! Thy gifts and fire impart; Make me love Thee from the heart!
As the hart, with longing, looks For refreshing water-brooks, Heated in the burning chace ; So my soul desires Thy grace : So my heavy-laden breast, By the cares of life opprest, Longs Thy cooling streams to taste In this dry and barren waste.
Mighty Spirit ! by whose aid Man a living soul was made ; Everlasting God ! whose fire Kindles chaste and pure desire ; Grant, in every grief and loss, I may calmly bear the cross, And surrender all to Thee, Comforting and strengthening me ! |
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