O God, whose favorable eye,
The sin-sick soul revives,
Holy and heavenly 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.
Lull’d in a soft and fatal sleep,
They sin and yet rejoice;
Were they indeed the Saviour’s sheep,
Would they not hear His voice?
Be mine the comforts that reclaim
The soul from Satan’s power;
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.
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Based on Keywords: fatal, blush, hate, soar, prepared, lower, suppose, satan, saviour, lull, comforts