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Go, worthless world, I cry, with all that's thine ! Go! I my Saviours am, and He is mine.
The good I have is from His stores supplied;
The ill is only what He deems the best; He for my Friend, I'm rich with nought beside ;
And poor without Him, though of all possest: Changes may come ; I take, or I resign ; Content, while I am His, while He is mine.
Whate'er may change, in Him no change is seen;
A glorious Sun, that wanes not nor declines ; Above the clouds and storms He walks serene,
And sweetly on his people's darkness shines: All may depart; I fret not, nor repine, While I my Saviour's am, while He is mine.
He stays me falling, lifts me up when down, Reclaims me wandering, guards from every foe;
Plants on my worthless brow the victor's crown ; Which, in return, before His feet I throw,
Grieved that I cannot better grace His shrine,
Who deigns to own me His, as He is mine.
While here, alas ! I know but half His love, But half discern Him, and but half adore ;
But when I meet Him in the realms above, I hope to love Him better, praise Him more,
And feel, and tell, amid the choir Divine,
How fully I am His, and He is mine.
Henry Francis Lyte. 1833.