2 ’Tis love that paints the purple morn,
And bids the clouds, in air upborne,
Their genial drops distill;
In every vernal beam it glows,
And breathes in every gale that blows,
And glides in every rill.
3 But in thy word I see it shine,
With grace and glories more divine,
Proclaiming sins forgiven;
There, Faith, bright cherub, points the way