Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless bed
Compose thy weary limbs to rest;
For they alone are blest
With balmy sleep
Whom angels keep;
Nor, though by care opprest,
Or anxious sorrow,
Or thought in many a...
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i am old and blind!
Men point at me as smitten by God’s frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind,
Yet am I not cast down.
I am weak, yet strong;
I murmur not that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong...
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Father, i scarcely dare to pray,
So clear I see, now it is done,
That I have wasted half my day,
And left my work but just begun;
So clear I see that things I thought
Were right or harmless were a sin;
So clear I see that I have sought,...
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The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see...
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O god, our Father, if we had but truth!
Lost truth—which thou perchance
Didst let man lose, lest all his wayward youth
He waste in song and dance;
That he might gain, in searching, mightier powers
For manlier use in those foreshadowed hours.
...
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Keep me, I pray, in wisdom’s way,
That I may truths eternal seek;
I need protecting care to-day,—
My purse is light, my flesh is weak.
So banish from my erring heart
All baleful appetites and hints
Of Satan’s fascinating art,
Of...
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if, when I kneel to pray,
With eager lips I say:
“Lord, give me all the things that I desire,—
Health, wealth, fame, friends, brave heart, religious fire,
The power to sway my fellow-men at will,
And strength for mighty works to banish ill,”—...
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I crave, dear Lord,
No boundless hoard
Of gold and gear,
Nor jewels fine,
Nor lands, nor kine,
Nor treasure-heaps of anything.—
Let but a little hut be mine
Where at the hearthstone I may hear
The cricket sing,...
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Dear lord! kind Lord!
Gracious Lord! I pray
Thou wilt look on all I love,
Tenderly to-day!
Weed their hearts of weariness;
Scatter every care,
Down a wake of angel wings
Winnowing the air.
Bring unto the sorrowing...
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Over the dim confessional cried
Father Amatus,—cloistered young,—
Dropping his rosary by his side,
Careless where his crucifix swung:
“I have been priest since—an endless when!
Sat by the living, consoled the dead,
Fasted and prayed for...
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