True And False Comforts.

O God, whose favourable eye The sin-sick soul revives, Holy and heavenly is the joy Thy shining presence gives. Not such as hypocrites suppose, Who with a graceless heart Taste not of thee, but drink a dose, Prepared by Satan's art. Intoxicating joys are theirs, Who, while they boast their light, And seem to soar above the stars, Are plunging into night. Lull'd in a soft and fatal sleep, They sin, and yet rejoice; Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep, Would they not hear his voice? Be mine the comforts that reclaim The soul from Satan's power; That make me blush for what I am, And hate my sin the more. 'Tis joy enough, my All in All, At thy dear feet to lie; Thou wilt not let me lower fall, And none can higher fly.