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'STRONG SON OF GOD.'
STRONG Son of God, immortal Love,
that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which Thou hast made.
Thou wilt not leave us in the dust :
Thou madest man, he knows not why;
He thinks he was not made to die ; And Thou hast made him : Thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood Thou :
Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours to make them thine.
Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of Thee, And Thou, O Lord, art more than they.
We have but faith : we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from Thee, A beam in darkness : let it grow.
Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell ;
That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before,
But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock Thee when we do not fear;
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.
WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS.'
IT fortifies my soul to know
That, though I perish, Truth is so;
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. THE WILL OF GOD.
WORSHIP thee, sweet will of God !
And all thy ways adore, And every day I live I seem
To love thee more and more.
Thou wert the end, the blessed rule
Of our Saviour's toils and tears; Thou wert the passion of his heart
Those three and thirty years.
And He hath breathed into my soul
A special love of thee,
And by that loss be free.
I love to kiss each print where thou
Hast set thine unseen feet:
Thine empire is so sweet.
When obstacles and trials seem
Like prison walls to be, I do the little I can do,
And leave the rest to thee.
I have no cares, O blessed Will !
For all my cares are thine;
Hast made thy triumphs mine.
Man's weakness waiting upon God
Its end can never miss,
More angel-like than this.
Thou glorious Will ! ride on ;
The road that thou hast gone.
To him no chance is lost;
It triumphs at his cost.
And unblest good is ill;
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
Who would have thought my shrivelled heart Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
Quite underground, as flowers depart To see their mother-root, when they have blown ;
Where they together
All the hard weather,
These are thy wonders, Lord of power, Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an hour;
O that I once past changing were,
Many a spring I shoot up fair, Off'ring at heaven, growing and groaning thither;
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring-shower, My sins and I joining together.
But while I grow in a straight line,
Thy anger comes, and I decline :
Where all things burn,
When Thou dost turn,