“Turn thou me, and I shall be turned.” Jer. 31. 18

D. Herbert      C.M.

How oft I grumble and repine,
With blessings in my hand;
There’s nothing here can satisfy,
Nor gold, nor house, nor land.

Sometimes the Lord bestows on me,
His fretful child, a toy,
On which I raise my prospects high,
And look for certain joy.

But soon there’s something intervenes;
I’ve something else in view;
The former mercy is forgot,
And I want something new.

[Oh! this unstable heart of mine
Is like the troubled sea;
The more I have, the more I want;
When shall I settled be?]

I know this wretched world can’t fill
This anxious soul of mine;
O could I to my Father’s will
My soul, my all resign!

[Sometimes, alas! I think I can;
I’ll trust the world no more;
But when I meet some little cross,
I’m fretful as before.

Why am I captivated thus,
By such poor trifling toys?
Alas! how oft this wretched world
Annoys my better joys!]

I want to trust, but cannot trust,
A God of providence;
Although he bless from day to day,
I’m full of diffidence.

[When troubles roll in thick and fast,
Ah! then my faith gives way;
Sometimes I think I cannot stand,
No, not another day.]

Sometimes, like Ephraim, I rebel,
I cannot bear the yoke;
I kick and murmur at the rod,
And shrink at every stroke;

But when my Father smiles again,
Then what a fool am I!
’Tis then, like Ephraim, I repent,
And smite upon my thigh.

Like him I mourn, like him I cry,
“Lord, hold me with thy hand;
And draw me by thy special grace;
Hold up, and I shall stand.”


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