Let not his praises grow On prosperous heights alone; But in the vales below, Let his great love be known. Let no distress Curb and control Let not the fear or smart Take off my fervent heart From praising my dear God. Still let me bring And to him kneel. Though I lose friends and wealth, And bear reproach and shame; Though I lose ease and health, Still let me praise God's name. Which would destroy Though human help depart, And flesh draw near to dust; Let faith keep up my heart, To love God true and just: And all my days Let no disease Cause me to cease Though sin would make me doubt, And fill my soul with fears, Though God seems to shut out My daily cries and tears: By no such frost Let thy sweet praise Away, distrustful care! I have thy promise, Lord, To banish all despair, I have thy oath and word. And therefore I Shall see thy face, Though sin and death conspire, To rob thee of thy praise, Still towards thee I'll aspire, And thou dull hearts canst raise. Open thy door; And when grim death Shall stop this breath, I'll praise thee more. With thy triumphant flock Then I shall numbered be, Built on th' eternal rock, His glory we shall see. In harmony. The sun is but a spark From the eternal light: To that most glorious sight: With one accord, For evermore. Or do they in a dream Sleep out their season? Or borne down by lust's stream, The silly lambs to-day Perhaps to-morrow; In a more brutish sort, As near to sorrow; Be sadly ended, And the web they have spun, Can ne'er be mended. What is the time that's gone, The present stays not. They sin forsake not. Man walks in a vain show, While they might taste and know In Christ's sweet meadows. Life's better slept away, Malignant world, adieu! Where no foul vice is new, Only to Satan true, God still offended; Though taught and warned by God, And his chastising rod, Keeps still the way that's broad, Never amended. Baptismal vows some make, They dig for hell beneath, To overtake it. Hell is not had for naught, He'll not abate it. Grace is refused that's free, Mad sinners hate it. Vile man is so perverse, It's too rough work for verse And show his folly : He'll die at any rates, He God and conscience hates, Yet sin he consecrates, And calls it holy : |