“Thou didst hide thy face, I was troubled.”  Ps. 30. 7

J. Berridge                       C.M.

If but a single moment’s space,
My Lord himself withdraws,
Dark clouds and storms come on apace,
And debts, and broken laws.

My heart reveals its dross and dung,
And loathsome is my breath;
My harp is on the willows hung,
And Esau vows my death.

My eyes refuse to lend a tear;
My throat is hoarse and dry;
I lisp and falter in my prayer,
And sick and faint am I.

If Jesus loves the gospel-poor,
That broken-hearted be,
A mourner waiteth at thy door,
Who wants a sight of thee.

Look from the windows of thy grace,
And cheer a drooping heart;
A single smile from thy sweet face
Will bid my griefs depart.

Thou art the life of all my joys;
Thy presence makes my heaven;
Whatever else my Lord denies,
Thy presence, Lord, be given.


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