Be this our care; to all beside
Indiff'rent let our wishes be;
Passion be calm, and dumb be pride,
And fix'd our souls, O God! on thee.
Imitation of the Divine Goodness recommended.
GOD of the universe! whose hand
Hath sown with suns the fields of space,
Round which, obeying thy command,
The peopled worlds fulfil their race.
How vast the region, where thy will
Existence, form and order gives;
Pleas'd the wide cup with joy to fill,
For all that grows and feels and lives!
Lord, while we thank thee, let us learn
Beneficence to all below;
Those praise thee best whose bosoms burn
To spread the gifts from thee that flow.
The Bounty of Providence.
FATHER of lights! we sing thy name
Who kindlest up the lamp of day;
Wide as he spreads his golden flame,
His beams thy pow'r and love display.
Fountain of good! from thee proceed
The copious drops of genial rain,
Which thro' the hills, and thro' the meads,
Revive the grass and swell the grain.
O ne'er may our forgetful hearts
O'erlook the tokens of thy care;
But what thy lib'ral hand imparts,
Still own in praise, still ask in pray'r.
So shall our suns more grateful shine,
And show'rs in sweeter drops will fall,
When all our hearts and lives are thine,
And thou, our God, enjoyed in all.
Trust in Providence.
WHILE my Redeemer's near,
My shepherd and my guide,
I bid farewell to anxious fear;
My wants are all supply'd.
To ever-fragrant meads,
Where rich abundance grows, His gracious hand indulgent leads, And guards my sweet repose.
Along the lovely scene,
Cool waters gently roll,
And kind refreshment smiles serene
To cheer my fainting soul.
Here let my spirit rest :
How sweet a lot is mine!
With pleasure, food and safety bless'd,
Beneficence divine.
Thankfulness in Prosperity and Adversity.
PRAISE to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous source of every joy!
Let thy praise our tongues employ :
For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield;
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the gen'rous olive's use:
Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain ;
Clouds that drop their fatt'ning dews,
Suns that temp'rate warmth diffuse :
All that spring with bounteous hand
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that lib'ral autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores :
These to thee, my God, we owe;
Source whence all our blessings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise,
Yet should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the rip'ning ear;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit;
Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store;
Tho' the sick'ning flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall;
Should thine alter'd hand restrain
Th' early and the latter rain :
Blast each op'ning bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy :
Yet to thee my soul should raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise ;
And, when ev'ry blessing's flown,
Love thee-for thyself alone.
Sympathy and Compassion.
PEACE to the man, wise, just, and good,
Whose heart, compassionate and kind,
Breathes love to God and love to man,
Mercy and piety combin'd.
The sympathy of mortal woes,
The manly, honest, gen'rous tear,
The pang that vibrates in the breast,
The sigh that speaks the soul sincere :
These are our Maker's destin'd gifts,
The rugged nature to refine :
Kind Parent of the human frame!
Let these thy precious gifts be mine :
Be mine the comfort, mine the joy,
The prompt, the timely aid to lend;
In all the acts of social love,
The meek and helpless suff'rer's friend.
The Use of Affliction.
WHY does the will of heav'n ordain
A world so mix'd with woe?
Why pour down want, disease and pain,
On wretched men below?
It was by sympathetic ties,
The human race to bind ;
To warm the heart, to fill the eyes
With pity for our kind :—
Pity, that, like the heav'nly bow,
On darkest cloud doth shine,
And makes, with her celestial glow,
The human face divine.
Where mercy takes her custom'd stand,
To bid her flock rejoice;
'Tis there with grace extends the hand,
There music tunes the voice.
And he who speaks in mercy's name,
No fiction needs nor art,
The still small voice of nature's claim,
Re-echoes through each heart.
Where pity's frequent tear is shed,
There God is seen, is found;
Descends upon the hallow'd head,
And sheds a glory round.
But charity itself may fail,
Which doth not active prove;
Nor will the pray'r of faith avail,
Without the works of love.
|