January 9, 2011, 8:30 pm
Filed under: Word-Pocket-Vision
Filed under: Word-Pocket-Vision
Breathe from the gentle south, O Lord,
and cheer me from the north;
Blow on the treasures of thy word,
and call the spices forth!
I wish, thou know-est, to be resigned,
and wait for patient hope;
But hope delay’d fatigues the mind,
and drinks the spirit up.
Help me to reach the distant goal;
confirm my feeble knee:
Pity the sickness of my soul
that faints for love of thee.
Cold as I feel this heart of mine,
Yet, since I felt it so,
It yields some hope of life divine
within however low.
I seem forsaken and alone,
I hear the lion roar;
And every door is shut but one,
and that is mercy’s door.
-Wm. Cowper
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