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Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form,
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day;
Man hath a weary pilgrimage,
On every stage from youth to age
With heaviness be casts his eye
Torn from his mother's arms;
Condemned to suffer through the day
And cares where love has no concern, Hope lightens as she counts the hours That hasten his return.
From hard control and tyrant rules,
The child's sad thoughts will roam ;
Youth comes: the toils and cares of life
Its consolation find?
Then is not youth, as Fancy tells,
Life's summer prime of joy? Ah! no; for hopes too long delayed, And feelings blasted or betrayed,
The fabled bliss destroy; And he remembers with a sigh The careless days of infancy.
Maturer manhood now arrives
And other thoughts come on, But with the baseless hopes of youth Its generous warmth is gone; Cold calculating cares succeed, The timid thought, the wary deed,
The dull realities of truth; Back on the past he turns his eye; Remembering with an envious sigh
The happy dreams of youth.
So reaches he the latter stage
With feeble step and slow;
That all is vanity below;
Life's vain delusions are gone by,
LOOKING AT THE CROSS.
In evil long I took delight,
I saw one hanging on a tree,
Sure never till my
It seemed to charge me with his death,
My conscience felt, and owned the guilt,
Alas! I know not what I did,
But now my tears are vain :
For I the Lord have slain.
A second look he
'I freely all forgive:
This blood is for thy ransom paid,
I die, that thou may'st live.'
Thus, while his death my sin displays
(Such is the mystery of grace,)
With pleasing grief and mournful joy,
That I should such a life destroy,