"1833. Again from sickness raised, to Thee Afresh my vows I plight; While God in everything I see, Sickness or health is right.
Thou canst not err; 'Thy will be done,' Be full submission mine; Subjected to Thy will alone, My will be lost in Thine.
These kind corrections from Thy hand, Shall blessed ordeals prove; To bow me to Thy mild command, And melt me into love.
My soul shall bless Thee for the past, And rest upon Thee now; The future--on Thy promise cast, And wait Thy will to know."
"I have been kept at home to-day through indisposition; but have endeavoured to improve my time to the Lord by prayer, the exercise of my memory, writing,--reading the Word, and also 'Bickersteth's Student's Guide:' but imperfection is stamped upon all I do.--The last night was very tempestuous, and awoke me from sleep. I got upon my knees and found my security in Him, who holds the, winds in His fists.--I have received letters from my three sons. How pleasant are such communications! How my heart would embrace them all! and would not God embrace _us_ all? Yea, how much more? O my slowness of heart to believe! A friend from the village called; and conversing on the low state of spiritual feeling among us, we agreed to make the case known to God every forenoon at half-past ten.--At the appointed hour I felt the throne accessible, and my soul was revived and stirred up: as to the village, I know not what to say.--Praise God, my soul is happy--happy still. My appointment was brought to my recollection very near the moment: my own soul was refreshed, but I experienced little feeling for my neighbours.--Half-past ten: a blessed softening season; felt the village laid as a burden upon me, for which I had power to plead. [These memoranda are continued, and the voice of intercession was not in vain; for within a short time, thirty new members were added to the little village society]."
Why does my Mary look so sad, And wear a pensive air? Where can the antidote be had To banish gloomy care?
Say, why your spirits sink and droop; Will Jesus not return? Arise, He calleth you, look up; O'er you His bowels yearn.
No sorrow can the bosom feel, But Jesus' love can cure; The wounded spirit He can heal, The fainting heart assure.