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"I HAVE LEARNED IN WHATSOEVER STATE I AM,

THEREWITH TO BE CONTENT."

FIERCE passions discompose the mind,

As tempests vex the sea;

But calm content and peace we find,
When, Lord, we turn to Thee.

In vain by reason and by rule
We try to bend the will;

For none but in the Saviour's school
Can learn the heavenly skill.

Since at His feet my soul has sate,
His gracious words to hear,
Contented with my present state,
I cast on Him my care.

"Art thou a sinner, soul," He said,

Then how canst thou complain?

How light thy troubles here, if weighed
With everlasting pain!

"If thou of murmuring would'st be cured, Compare thy griefs with mine;

Think what my love for thee endured,

And thou wilt not repine.

""Tis I appoint thy daily lot,

And I do all things well:

Soon shalt thou quit this gloomy scene,
And rise with me to dwell.

In life my grace shall strength supply
Proportioned to thy day;

In death thou still shalt find me nigh,
To wipe thy tears away."

Thus I, who once my wretched days
In vain repinings spent,

Taught in my Saviour's school of grace,
Have learned to be content.

WHEN THOU WENTEST AFTER ME IN THE

WILDERNESS."

FAR from the world, O Lord! I flee,
From strife and tumult far;
From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.

The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree:
And seem, by thy sweet bounty, made
For those who follow Thee.

There if Thy Spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,

Oh! with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God!

There, like the nightingale, she pours

Her solitary lays;

Nor asks a witness of her song,

Nor thirsts for human praise.

Author and Guardian of my life,

Sweet source of life divine;
And (all harmonious names in one,)

My Saviour, Thou art mine!

What thanks I owe thee, and what love,

A boundless, endless store,

Shall echo through the realms above,
When time shall be no more.

66 THY FOOTSTEPS ARE NOT KNOWN."

GOD moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;

He plants His footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

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