Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:
Some gleams of sunshine ’mid renewing storms.
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
Or death’s unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms:
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath His sin-avenging rod.
Fain would I say, “Forgive my foul offence!”
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But should my Author health again dispense,