Divine breathings: or, A pious soul thirsting after Christ, in a hundred pathetical meditations [by T. Sherman].

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James Kay, 1836 - 160 pages
 

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Page 7 - Rivers to the ocean run, Nor stay in all their course ; Fire, ascending, seeks the sun ; Both speed them to their source : So a soul, that's born of God, Pants to view His glorious face, Upward tends to His abode, To rest in His embrace.
Page 76 - There, fragrant flowers, immortal, bloom, And joys supreme are given ; There, rays divine disperse the gloom : Beyond the confines of the tomb Appears the dawn of heaven.
Page 46 - His name yields the richest perfume, And sweeter than music his voice ; His presence disperses my gloom, And makes all within me rejoice : I should, were he always thus nigh, Have nothing to wish or to fear, No mortal so happy as I, My summer would last all the year.
Page 9 - Man may trouble and distress me ; 'Twill but drive me to Thy breast. Life with trials hard may press me ; Heaven will bring me sweeter rest. O, 'tis not in grief to harm me, While Thy love is left to me ! O, 'twere not in joy to charm me, Were that joy unmixed with Thee.
Page 51 - Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ; A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Alia given, To lift from earth our low desire. Devotion wafts the mind above, But Heaven itself descends in love ; A feeling from the Godhead caught, To wean from self each sordid thought ; A Ray of Him who form'd the whole ; A Glory circling round the soul...
Page 67 - Life's duty done, as sinks the clay, Light from its load the spirit flies; While heaven and earth combine to say, " How blest the righteous when he dies!
Page 60 - Though my own heart accuse me not Of walking in a false disguise, I beg the trial of thine eyes. 4 Doth secret mischief lurk within ? Do I indulge some unknown sin ? O turn my feet whene'er I stray, And lead me in thy perfect way.
Page 63 - God from on high beholds your thoughts ; His book records your secret faults : The works of darkness you have done Must all appear before the sun. 4 The vengeance to your follies due Should strike your hearts with terror thro...
Page 96 - The wounded conscience knows its power, The healing balm to give; That balm the saddest heart can cheer, And make the dying live.
Page 44 - I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying: Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.

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