William Cowper 8,6,8,6 True and false comforts. O God, whose favorable eye The sin-sick soul revives; Holy and heav'nly 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. Lulled in a soft and fatal sleep, They sin, and yet rejoice; Were they indeed the Savior's sheep, Would they not hear his voice? Be mine the comforts, that reclaim The soul from Satan's pow'r; 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. |