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The Book of Praise.
And, sure, from Heav'n we turn our eyes In vain, to seek for bliss below ;
The tree of Life can't root nor rise, Nor in this blasted region grow :
The wealth of this poor barren clod
Can ne'er make up the want of God.
But, Lord ! in Thee the thirsty soul Will meet with full, with rich supplies !
Thy smiles will all her fears control, Thy beauties feast her ravish'd eyes :
To failing flesh and fainting hearts
Thy favour life and strength imparts !
Simon Browne. 1720.
Christ, my hidden Life, appear,
Soul of my inmost soul! Light of life, the mourner cheer,
And make the sinner whole ! Now in me Thyself display ; Surely Thou in all things art; I from all things turn away
To seek Thee in my heart!
Open, Lord, my inward ear,
And bid my heart rejoice ! Bid my quiet spirit hear
Thy comfortable voice ; Never in the whirlwind found, Or where earthquakes rock the place ; Still and silent is the sound,
The whisper of Thy grace !