O GOD, impart Thy blessing to my cries, Tho' I trust deeply, yet I daily err; The waters of my heart are oft astir: -- An Angel's there! and yet I cannot rise! I wish that CHRIST were here among us still, Proffering His bosom to his servant's brow; But oh! that holy voice comes o'er us now Like twilight echoes from a distant hill: We long for His pure looks and words sublime; His lowly-lofty innocence and grace; The talk sweet-toned, and blessing all the time; The mountain sermon and the ruthful gaze; The cheerly credence gather'd from His face; His voice in village-groups at eve or prime! |