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בס"ד

Sabbath Thoughts

No. VI.

Written During Illness

By Grace Aguilar

Oh, do not think because I weep
   And smiles awhile are flown,
And thoughts of darkness o’er me creep,
   My God hath left me lone;

That His deep love is vain to hug
   This wildly yearning heart,
That to the dreams which o’er me rush,
   He cannot peace impart;

That ‘tis but vain, religious balm,
   Which joy my soul had stored,
And fruitless all, the hope, the calm,
   Found in His precious word.

Oh, no! Oh, no! Mine eyelids swell
   With quickly quiv’ring tears,
And thoughts, in sluggish darkness, dwell
   ‘Neath earth’s depressing fears;

And all of joy, of hope, of peace,
   Seems banished hence awhile,
For he who bids all sorrow cease,
   Hath veiled His gracious smile;

And turned away that loving eye,
   Which beamed on me in pain,
And left me helplessly to lie,
   As if my trust were vain.

No! no! ‘tis only for a little while,
   He turns away His face,
And once again His cheering smile,
   My yearning soul shall trace;

And ‘tis His love, which lays me low,
   And bows my soul to dust,
And bids the tear of anguish flow,
   To mark if still I trust:

If still, though comfortless, I turn,
   And pine, and long for Him,
And loving mercy still discern,
   Though mortal sight be dim,­—

And oh, I know, I feel it love,
   And lay me at His feet,
Knowing that if I look above,
   E’en sorrow’s self is sweet.

The tempest shadows darkly lower,
   To fold me in their night,
But, oh! in His appointed hour,
   His love will bring forth light.

And I will wait for Him, and rest,
   Without one murm’ring plaint,
Though sighs escape my labouring breast,
And my lonely spirit faint.

Heed not my crying, Lord! ‘tis well,
   Or Thou wouldst let me free,
Better in chains with Thee to dwell
   Than free, apart from Thee!

Thou mark’st me Thine; these hours of pain
   That bid me lonely lie,
And bind me with a heavy chain,
   Still, still, proclaim Thee nigh!

They call me for awhile from earth,
   And all her pleasant dreams,
And if they check the voice of mirth,
   And joy’s too dazzling gleams:

Oh, ‘tis to hold commune with Thee,
   To feel I am Thine own,
Thy “still small voice” would silent be,
   In festal halls alone.

Let me but feel this Father, oh!
   E’en though awhile I weep,
Let not o’er faith’s rejoicing glow
   The stagnant darkness creep.

Be with me still! though comfortless, 
   Let not my trust depart,
Oh, be thy spirit nigh to bless,
   This lone and aching heart!

Grant me but faith, my God! to rest
   Unmurm’ring in thy will,
Then, then, though peace forsake my breast,
   I am in safety still!