From the Recesses of a Lowly Spirit

From the re­cess­es of a low­ly spir­it

Our hum­ble pray­er as­cends; O Fa­ther! hear it

Upsoaring on the wings of awe and meek­ness;

Forgive its weak­ness!

I know

I feel

how mean and how un­wor­thy

The trem­bling sac­ri­fice I pour be­fore Thee;

What can I of­fer in Thy pre­sence ho­ly

But sin and fol­ly?

For in Thy sight—who ev­ery bosom view­est

Cold are our warm­est vows

and vain our tru­est;

Thoughts of a hur­ry­ing hour; our lips r­epeat them

Our hearts for­get them.

We see Thy hand—it leads us

it sup­ports us:

We hear Thy voice—it coun­sels and it courts us:

And then we turn away—and still Thy kind­ness

Pardons our blind­ness.

And still Thy rain des­cends

Thy sun is glow­ing

Fruits rip­en round

flow­ers are be­neath us blow­ing

And

as if man were some de­serv­ing crea­ture

Joys cov­er na­ture.

O how long-suf­fer­ing

Lord! but Thou de­light­est

To win with love the wan­der­ing—Thou in­vit­est

By smiles of mer­cy—not by frowns or ter­rors

Man from his er­rors.

Father and Sav­ior! plant with­in that bo­som

The seeds of ho­li­ness—and bid them blos­som

In frag­rance and in beau­ty bright and ver­nal

And spring eter­nal.

Then place them in Thine ev­er­last­ing gar­dens

Where an­gels walk

and ser­aphs are the war­dens;

Where ev­ery flow­er that creeps

Thro’ death’s dark por­tal

Becomes im­mor­tal.