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The Book of Praise.
Less than Thyself will not suffice
My comfort to restore ; More than Thyself I cannot have ;
And Thou canst give no more.
Loved of my God, for Him again
With love intense I burn ; Chosen of Thee ere time began,
I choose Thee in return ! Whate'er consists not with Thy love,
O ! teach me to resign ! I'm rich to all th' intents of bliss,
If Thou, O God, art mine!
Augustus Montague Toplady. i
Jesu ! who for my transgression Didst the shameful cross endure,
And didst there the blest possession Of Thy joys to me insure ;
May my praise be ever telling
Of Thy love, all love excelling!
Wondrous woes that brought salvation !
Wondrous grace to sinners shown ! Heaven is wrapt in contemplation
Of His love, whom men disown ! Oh my soul! wilt thou disown Him ? Wilt not thou, my heart, enthrone Him ?
Who but He can bless thy weeping ?
Who but He can soothe thy grief? Only safe beneath His keeping,
Thou in Him hast sure relief: