311 MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS. Spirit. We are near a-kin to him, even his own offspring, but 'we see not our Father's face ; nor can all the powers of our nature come at the knowledge of him that made us, but by the labours and inferences of our reason. We toil and work backward to find our Creator : from our present existence we trace out his eternity ; and through the chain of a thousand visible effects, we search out the first, the invisible and almighty cause. For the most part indeed, we are so amused and ingrossed by the things of sense, that we forget our Maker, and are thought- less of him that gave us being : or if we seek and follow after him, it is on a cold scent, and with lazy enquiries ; and when we fancy we perceive something of him, it is at a distance, and in a dusky. twilight. We espy some faint beams, some glimmerings of his glory breaking through the works of his hands ; but he himself stands behind the veil, and does not shew himself in open light to the sons and daughters of mortality. Happy creatures, if we could make our way so near him as to behold the lovely and adorable beauties of his nature ; if we could place our souls so directly under his kindest influence, as to feel ourselves adore him in the most profound humility, and love him with most sublime affection ! My God, I love and I adore But souls that love would know thee more. Wilt thou for ever hide, and stand Behind the labours of thy hand ; Thy band unseen sustains the poles On which this huge creation rolls The starry arch proclaims thy j,ow'r, Thy pencil glows in every flow 'r In thousand shapes and colours rise Thy ainted wonders to our eyes,; While beasts and birds w "ith lab'ring throats, Teach us a God in thousand notes. The meanest pin in nature's fronte, Marks out some letter of thy haler. Where sense can reach or fancy rove, From bill to hill, from field to grove, Across the waves, around the sky, There's not a spot, or deep, or high, Where the Creator has not trod, And left the footstep of a God. But are his footsteps all that we, Poor grov'ling worms, must know or see ? Thou Maker of my vital frame', Unveil thy face, pronounce thy name, Shine to my sight, and let the ear Which thou hast form'd, thy language hear. Where is thy residence ? Oh, why Dost thou avoid my searching eye, My longing sense? Thou great un- known, Say, do the clouds conceal thy throne' Divide, ye clouds and let me see The pow. r that gives me leave to be. Or art thou all diffus'd abroad Thro' boundless space, a preseet God,.. Unseen, un eard, yet never near "! Wlriat shall I o to find thee here! Is there not sbbbbme mysterious art To feel thy presence at my heart? To hear thy whispers soft and kind, In holy silence of the mind ? Then rest my thoughts; no longer roam In quest of joy, for henv'n's at home. But, oh, thy beams of warmest love'! Sure they were made for worlds above : How shall my soul her pow'rs extend, , Beyond where time and nature end, To reach those heights, thy best abode, And meet they kindest smiles, my God? What shall I do ? I wait thy call ; Pronounce the word, my life, my all. Oh for a wing to bear me far Beyond the golden morning. star ! Fain would I trace th' immortal way, That leads to courts of endless day, Where the Creator stands confessad, In his own fairest glories dress'd. Some shining spirit help me rise, Come waft a stranger Oro' the skies ; Bless'd Jesus, meet me on the road, First offspring of th' eternal Clod, Thy hand shall lead a younger son, Clothe' me with vesteres yet unknown, And place me near my Father's throne.
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