Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/52

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Thou, who bounteous to their need, Dost all earth's thronging pilgrims feed, Dost bid for them in every clime, The pregnant harvest know its time, The flocks in verdant pastures dwell, The corn aspire, the olive swell, Fain would we bless that sleepless Eye That doth our hourly wants descry. —Thou pour'st us from the nested grove, The minstrel-melody of love, Thou giv'st us of the fruitage fair That summer's ardent suns prepare, Of honey from the rock that flows, And of the perfume of the rose, And of the breeze, whose balm repairs The sickening waste of toils and cares. —And tho', perchance, the ingrate knee Bends not in praise, or prayer to thee, Tho' Sin that stole with traitor-sway Even Peter's loyalty away, May strongly weave its seven-fold snare, And bring dejection and despair; Yet not the morn with cheering eye More duly lights the expecting sky, Nor surer speeds on pinion light Each measur'd moment's trackless flight, Than comes thy mercy's kind embrace To feeble man's forgetful race.