Poems (Pizey)/Reflections on a Sunday Morning
REFLECTIONSON A SUNDAY MORNING.
From sleep I wake refresh'd, and riseWith peace and sweet tranquillity,Shedding around me all their joys—No busy hum of mortals' toil,No vain joys and senseless pleasures,Nor the venom'd dart of slanderReach me;—I stand accountableTo God alone, who makes yon sunTo rise both on good and evil.What are now the boasted richesOf the world? what are its pleasures—Its glories what? Can they affordOne feeling that e'er can equal The full delight and gratitudeWhich warms this weak and erring heart?Can they steal o'er the human mindWith such a charm, as all these worksOf the divine Creator give?Here I can gaze, and wheresoe'erI turn, perfection's visible,All is perfect, for 'tis thy work,Thou great and infinite Supreme!Yes, ev'ry plant and blade of grassBear witness of thy bounteous hand.Here, as I look around, I feelHow weak and frail a thing is man.Here, I can reason with myself,My mind unruffled, and my heartInspir'd with gratitude and love,Raising my soul from this vain worldTo heavenly contemplation.What am I among thy creatures,Great Father of the Universe,That thou should'st thus regard me?— Are all these gifts bestow'd on me—A poor, weak, and feeble creature,Subject to pain, and sin, and death—Are they made for my enjoyments?And did I ever yet meritEven one of all thy mercies?No;—man is by nature sinful,Too prone to base ingratitude.Pardon my faults, Almighty God!And fix this wand'ring, erring heart,With humble faith, on thee alone.A few hours hence, and I shall mingleWith the busy crowd of mortals,Expos'd alike to sin and pride,And ev'ry false alluring snareWhich the deceitful world holds forth.Before this sun shall set again,I may behold thousands engag'dIn life's uncertain bustling scene;Some perhaps thinking of its wealth,How they may best add heap to heap,Forgetful of the slender thread On which their fancied pleasures hang;Others pant for fame or glory,Or mad ambition leads them on,Till, giddy with the height, they fall,And grasping then for kind support,Find, too late, they 've grasp'd a phantom.Should I go with the multitude,To thine own temple, gracious Lord,Where shall I turn mine eye to find,Among the number gather'd there,One human being that is pure—One that's unspotted from the world,Or one that does in semblance bearThe bright image of his Saviour?How manifold are the great worksOf thy omniscient hand, O Lord!And man only is imperfect.Endow'd by thee with reason's light,Of ev'ry earthly good possest;Yet his own passions war within,And the enticements of the world,Pride, vanity, and worldliness, League with evil inclinations,And draw his erring heart from thee.Save me, O God, from all this hostOf powerful foes, and guide my stepsIn calm contentment's pleasant way,And let Religion's holy lampDirect me in the path of life,Far from the dread abyss of sin,Unhurt amidst the snares of vice,Safe through the shad'wy vale of death,To mansions of eternal rest;To pleasures unalloy'd by pain,To brighter joys, which never fade,To scenes of bliss which will not end,Where the glorious Sun of PeaceSets but to rise more bright and fair,Where alone the just made perfectInherit to eternity,And dwell for ever, Lord, with thee.