Thy love, with all a mother’s care,
Sustained my childish days:
Thy goodness watched my ripening youth,
And formed my heart to love thy truth,
And filled my lips with praise.
And now, in age and grief, thy name
Doth still my languid heart inflame,
And bow my faltering knee;
O yet this bosom feels the fire;
This trembling hand and drooping lyre
Have yet a strain for thee!
Yes; broken, tuneless, still, O Lord,
This voice, transported, shall record
Thy goodness, tried so long;
Till, sinking slow, with calm decay,
Its feeble murmurs melt away
Into a seraph’s song.
Sir Robert Grant
Bride of the Lamb, awake! awake!Why sleep for sorrow now?
The hope of glory, Christ is thine,-
A child of glory thou.
Thy spirit, through the lonely night,
From earthly joy apart,
Hath sigh’d for one that’s far away,-
The Bridegroom of thy heart.
But lo, the night is waning fast,
The breaking morn is near;
And Jesus comes, with voice of love,
Thy drooping heart to cheer.
He comes-for, oh! His yearning heart
No more can bear delay-
To scenes of full unmingled joy,
To call His bride away.
This earth, the scene of all His woe,-
A homeless wild to thee,-
Full soon upon His heav’nly throne
Its rightful King shall see.
Thou, too, shalt reign-He will not wear
His crown of joy alone!
And earth His royal Bride shall see
Beside Him on the throne.
Then weep no more! ‘tis all thine own-
His crown, His joy divine,
And sweeter far than all beside,
He, He Himself, is thine.
Sir Edward Denny
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