Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/366

We had a longing, lingering hope
That, spite the torments that we feel,
A peace would come our mortal wounds to heal;
But now expectance has no scope.
Our sins have not permitted peace,
Thy wrath against our crimes, Thy fearful wrath
New lions sends across our path,
And our misfortunes never cease.

When all looks dark, behind, before,
Had we at least, O Lord, Thy Grace,
We might, assured, have boldly run our race:
But no, we see Thy Grace no more.
Ills upon ills press down severe
Upon us, and Thou deignest not to see;
The bricks are doubled by decree,
But Moses does not yet appear.

Where are Thy favours of the past?
Are they, alas! for ever gone?
We loved them, when Thy light upon us shone,
And love them yet, in darkness cast.
We see Thee, Lord, in vengeance raise
Thine arm, but still to Thee for shelter fly:
If in Thy justice we must die,
Our last thought shall that justice praise.

If to consume us be Thy will,
We shall retire within Thy breast;
Send chains and gibbets, famine, war and pest,
We shall adore and love Thee still.
In fears and ills of every sort
We shall obey Thee, long as reason lasts,
Well knowing that Thy roughest blasts
Lead us but quicker to the port.