A fountain from the mount of God doth flow,
For all who will take time and pains to go,
Whose healing stream,
Doth freely teem,
To wash polluted sinners white as snow!
A soul thus wash’d shall joyful rise again,
By Death unscar’d, and on angelic wing,
Shall mount above,
To Him whose love
And power deprive the monster of his sting!
MUSINGS DURING AFFLICTION;
OR
THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS.
“He shall fly away as a dream.” (Job. xx. 8.)
While here I sit musing alone,
Not sharing the toils of the day,
My spirit doth inwardly groan,
At the symptoms I feel of decay.
My care burden’d mind can’t be still,
Though the external fabric be maim’d;
Some part must be working the will
Of Him who that fabric hath framed.
The merchant looks over his books,
And hopes well to finish the day;
So life hath some corners and nooks,
It might not be wrong to survey.