When life her throng of care reveals,
And weakness o'er my spirit steals,
Grateful I hear the kind decree
That "as my day,—my strength shall be."—
When with sad footstep memory roves
Mid smitten joys, and buried loves,
When sleep my tearful pillow flies
And dewy morning drinks my sighs,
Still to thy promise, Lord, I flee,
That "as my day, my strength shall be."
One trial more must yet be past,
One pang,—the keenest, and the last,—
And when with brow convulsed and pale,
My feeble,—quivering heart-strings fail,
Redeemer!—grant my soul to see
That "as her day, her strength shall be."
"A MAN'S LIFE CONSISTETH NOT IN THE
ABUNDANCE OF THE THINGS THAT HE POSSESSETH."
Think'st thou the steed that restless roves
O'er fields and mountains, vales and groves,
With wild, unbridled bound.
Finds fresher pasture than the bee
On simple flower, or dewy tree,
Intent to store her industry
Within her waxen round?—
