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Hope. |
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CCCLXVII.
Fain would my thoughts fly up to Thee, Thy peace, sweet Lord, to find ;
But when I offer, still the world Lays clogs upon my mind.
Sometimes I climb a little way And thence look down below ;
How nothing, there, do all things seem, That here make such a show !
Then round about I turn my eyes
To feast my hungry sight; I meet with Heaven in every thing,
In every thing delight.
I see Thy wisdom ruling all,
And it with joy admire ; I see myself among such hopes
As set my heart on fire.
When I have thus triumph'd awhile, And think to build my nest,
Some cross conceits come fluttering by, And interrupt my rest.
Then to the earth again I fall,
And from my low dust cry, 'Twas not in my wing, Lord, but Thine,
That I got up so high.
And now, my God, whether I rise,
Or still lie down in dust, Both I submit to Thy blest will;
In both, on Thee I trust. |
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