38H MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS. The tiresome pains of nature ! Present woes Have their sweet periods. Ease and cheerful health With slow approach (so Providence ordains) Revisit their forsaken mansions here, And days of useful life diffuse their dawn O'er the dark cottage of my weary soul. My vital powers'resume their vigour now, My spirit feels her freedom, shakes her wings, Exults and spatiates o'er a thousand scenes, Surveys the world, and with full stretch of thought Grasps her ideas; while impatient zeal Awakes my tongue to praise. What mortal voice Or mortal hand can render to my God The tribute due ! What altars shall I raise? What grand inscription to proclaim his mercy In living lines? Where shall I find a victim Meet to be offered to his sovereign love, And solemnize the worship and the joy? Search well, my soul, thro' all the dark recesses Of nature and self -love ; the plies, the folds, And hollow winding caverns of the heart, Where flattery hides our sins search out the foes Of thy almighty Friend ; what lawless passions, What vain desires, what vicious turns of thought Lurk there unheeded : Bring them forth to view, And sacrifice the rebels to his honour. Well he deserves this worship at thy hands, Who pardons thy past follies, who restores Thy monld'ring fabric, and withholds thy life From the near borders of a gaping grave. Almighty power, I love thee; blissful name, My healer, God ; and may my inmost heart Love and adore for ever ! O'tin good To wait submissiveat thy holy throne, To leave petitions at thy feet, and bear Thy frowns and silence with a patient soul. The hand of mercy is not short to save, Nor is the ear of heavenly pity deaf To mortal cries. It notic'd all my groans, And sighs, and long complaints, with wise delay, Tho' painful to the suff'rer, and thy hand Iu proper moment brought desir'd relief: Rise from my couch, ye late enfeebled limbs, Prove your new strength, and shew the effective skill Of the divine Physician ; bear away This tottering body to his sacred threshold : There laden with his honours, let me bow Before his feet; let me pronounce his grace, Pronounce salvation thro' his dying Son, And teach this sinful world the Saviour's name. Then rise, any hymning soul, on holy notes Tow'rd his high throne; awake, my choicest songs, Run echoing round the roof; and while you pay The solemn vows of my distressful hours, A thousand friendly lips shall aid the praise.
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