Page:The poetical works of William Cowper (IA poeticalworksof00cowp).pdf/127

 all the gifts thine hand bestows,
 * Thou Giver of all good!

Not heaven itself a richer knows
 * Than my Redeemer's blood.

Faith too, the blood-receiving grace,
 * From the same hand we gain;

Else, sweetly as it suits our case,
 * That gift had been in vain.

Till thou thy teaching power apply,
 * Our hearts refuse to see,

And weak, as a distempered eye,
 * Shut out the view of thee.

Blind to the merits of thy Son,
 * What misery we endure!

Yet fly that hand from which alone
 * We could expect a cure.

We praise thee, and would praise thee more,
 * To thee our all we owe;

The precious Saviour, and the power
 * That makes him precious too.

King! whose wondrous hand Supports the weight of sea and land; Whose grace is such a boundless store, No heart shall break that sighs for more.

Thy providence supplies my food, And 'tis thy blessing makes it good; My soul is nourished by thy word: Let soul and body praise the Lord!

My streams of outward comfort came From him who built this earthly frame; Whate'er I want his bounty gives, By whom my soul for ever lives.

Either his hand preserves from pain, Or, if I feel it, heals again; From Satan's malice shields my breast, Or overrules it for the best.

Forgive the song that falls so low Beneath the gratitude I owe! It means thy praise, however poor, An angel's song can do no more.

has a joy for me,
 * While the Saviour's charms I read,

Lowly, meek, from blemish free,
 * In the snowdrop's pensive head.

Spring returns, and brings along
 * Life-invigorating suns:

Hark! the turtle's plaintive song
 * Seems to speak his dying groans!

Summer has a thousand charms,
 * All expressive of his worth;

'Tis his sun that lights and warms,
 * His the air that cools the earth.


 * What! has Autumn left to say

Nothing of a Saviour's grace?
 * Yes, the beams of milder day

Tell me of his smiling face.

Light appears with early dawn,
 * While the sun makes haste to rise;

See his bleeding beauties drawn
 * On the blushes of the skies.

Evening with a silent pace,
 * Slowly moving in the west,

Shows an emblem of his grace,
 * Points to an eternal rest.

Jesus, the Crown of my Hope,
 * My soul is in haste to be gone;

Oh bear me, ye cherubim, up,
 * And waft me away me away to his throne!

My Saviour, whom absent I love,
 * Whom, not having seen, I adore;

Whose name is exalted above
 * All glory, dominion, and power;

Dissolve thou these bonds, that detain
 * My soul from her portion in thee,

Ah! strike off this adamant chain,
 * And make me eternally free.

When that happy era begins,
 * When arrayed in thy glories I shine,

Nor to grieve any more, by my sins,
 * The bosom on which I recline;