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C. M.

Sick-bed devotion.


God of my life, look gently down,

Behold the pains I feel;

But I am dumb before thy throne,

Nor dare dispute thy will.

Diseases are thy servants, Lord,

They come at thy command;

I'll not attempt a murm'ring word

Against thy chast'ning hand.

Yet I may plead with humble cries,

Remove thy sharp rebukes;

My strength consumes, my spirit dies,

Through thy repeated strokes.

Crushed as a moth beneath thy hand,

We moulder to the dust;

Our feeble powers can ne'er withstand,

And all our beauty's lost.

[This mortal life decays apace,

How soon the bubble's broke!

Adam and all his num'rous race

Are vanity and smoke.]

I'm but a sojourner below,

As all my fathers were;

May I be well prepared to go,

When I the summons hear.

But if my life be spared awhile,

Before my last remove,

Thy praise shall be my business still,

And I'll declare thy love.

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