XX.
OUT OF THE DUST.
Lord, hear my cry and see my case,
As hart for streams I pant for grace:
Come, O my God, bear me above,
To bathe my wounds in thy blest love.
Are there not myriads now in bliss,
Whose cry on earth was often this?
Here in the dust how deep their groans,
But now they sit on glorious thrones.
When shall I that glad hour behold,