Where tears are wiped from every eye, And sorrow is unknown; From the burthen of the flesh, And from care and fear released, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er, And borne the heavy load, But Christ hath taught thy languid feet To reach his blest abode ; Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus, Upon his father's breast, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. Sin can never taint thee now, Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ And there thou'rt sure to meet the good, 'Earth to earth,' and dust to dust,' The solemn priest hath said: So we lay the turf above thee now, And we seal thy narrow bed: But thy spirit, brother, soars away Among the faithful blest, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. And when the Lord shall summon us, May we, untainted by the world, As sure a welcome find: May each, like thee, depart in peace, To be a glorious guest, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. A PENITENT. I would, but cannot sing, Guilt has untuned my voice, The serpent sin's envenomed sting Has poisoned all my joys. Milman. I know the Lord is nigh, And would, but cannot pray, I would, but can't repent, I would, but cannot love, No arguments have power to move I would, but cannot rest In God's most holy will; I know what he appoints is best, O could I but believe! Then all would easy be; I would, but cannot-Lord, relieve; My help must come from thee! But if indeed I would, Though I can nothing do; Yet the desire is something good, By nature prone to ill, Wilt thou not crown at length In all thy ways to run. PROVIDENCE. God moves in a mysterious way, And rides upon the storm. Newton. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up his bright designs, Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning Providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain. Cowper. |