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THY judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to wear
But mine is guilt-thou must not, can'st not, spare,
And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!
Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; Smite-it is time-though endless death ensue,
I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood?
TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS,
Who, when Henry reasoned with him calmly, asked,
"If he did not feel for him."
"Do I not feel!" The doubt is keen as steel.
My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye
Even then I learnt to bury deep from day,
I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's
Who were my friends in youth ?-The midnight fireThe silent moon beam, or the starry choir;
To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight,
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;