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The Call. 347
When the poor heart with anguish learns That earthly props resign'd must be,
And from each broken cistern turns, It hears the accents, Come to Me !
When against sin I strive in vain, And cannot from its yoke get free.
Sinking beneath the heavy chain, The words arrest me, Come to Me !
When nature shudders, loth to part From all I love, enjoy, and see ;
When a faint chill steals o'er my heart, A sweet voice utters, Come to Me !
Come, for all else must fail and die ;
Earth is no resting-place for thee ; Heavenward direct thy weeping eye ;
I am thy Portion ; Come to Me !
O voice of mercy, voice of love !
In conflict, grief, and agony, Support me, cheer me from above,
And gently whisper, Come to me !
Charlotte Elliott. 1834.
Come, take my yoke, the Saviour said ; To follow Me be not afraid ; For I in heart am lowly, meek, And offer you the rest you seek.
The yoke of Pleasure may allure, And promise bliss that will endure ; But, when it has thy youth despoil'd, 'Twill cast thee off as garment soil'd.