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1300.

[The harvest of my joys is pass'd]

The harvest is past, the summer is ended, &c. —viii. 20.

The harvest of my joys is pass'd,
The summer of my comforts fled,
Yet am I unredeem'd at last,
And sink unsaved among the dead,
If on the margin of the grave
Thou canst not in a moment save.
Destroy me not by Thy delay,
Delay is endless death to me:
But the last moment of my day
Is as a thousand years to Thee:
Come, Jesus, while my head I bow,
And show me Thy salvation now!