And his breath, as an overflowing stream, shall reach to the midst of the neck.—Isaiah, xxx. 27, 28.
Thou hast heard my voice: hide not thine ear at my breathing, at my cry.—Lamentations, iii. 56.
Since I in storms most used to be,
And seldom yielded flowers,
How shall I get a wreath for thee
From those rude barren hours?
The softer dressings of the spring,
Or summer’s later store,
I will not for thy temples bring,
Which thorns, not roses, wore: