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WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF A RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

Peace, fluttering soul! the storm is o'er,
Ended at last the doubtful strife:
Respiring now, the cause explore
That bound thee to a wretched life.
When on the margin of the grave,
Why did I doubt my Saviour's art?
Ah! why mistrust His will to save?
What meant that faltering of my heart?
'Twas not the searching pain within
That fill'd my coward flesh with fear;
Nor conscience of uncancell'd sin;
Nor sense of dissolution near.
Of hope I felt no joyful ground,
The fruit of righteousness alone;
Naked of Christ my soul I found,
And started from a God unknown.
Corrupt my will, nor half subdued,
Could I His purer presence bear?
Unchanged, unhallow'd, unrenew'd
Could I before His face appear?
Father of mercies, hear my call!
Ere yet returns the fatal hour,
Repair my loss, retrieve my fall,
And raise me by Thy quickening power.
74

My nature re-exchange for Thine;
Be Thou my life, my hope, my gain;
Arm me in panoply Divine,
And Death shall shake his dart in vain.
When I Thy promised Christ have seen,
And clasp'd Him in my soul's embrace,
Possest of my salvation, then—
Then, let me, Lord, depart in peace!
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