Thy bounteous cup my soul has bless'd, And pour'd a balm within my breast, That wealth cannot bestow; Though choicest fruits the vineyards yield, Though every fruit of every field In rich luxuriance grow. Come, sleep, thy genial influence shed; The Lord shall not forsake my bed, Nor leave my soul forlorn. His guardian hand, whose power has made The brightest ray, the darkest shade, Shall bring me safe to morn. PARAPHRASE OF THE LORD'S PRAYER. Eternal God! whose pow'r divine This wond'rous world has made, And all the distant worlds that shine Unnumber'd o'er my head! Who dwellest in the realms of light, Where none but saints can be; Who sittest on a throne-too bright For mortal eyes to see! That men, as saints above, may know Thy mandates to fulfil That earth with heav'n may strive to do The pleasures of thy will. On thee our future wants depend; On thee our daily bread: This day thy gracious hand extend, And grant us what we need— What our obedience never did And never can receive; What our offences would forbid Let mercy deign to give. L |