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THY judgments, Lord, are just ; thou lov'st to wear
The face of pity, and of love divine ;
While Heaven is true, and equity is thine.
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;
And even thy mercy dares not plead for me! Thy will be done-since 'tis thy glory's due, Did from mine
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.