THE HEART'S MISGIVINGS.
By M. A. Holt
Oh! can it be that such as I,
A sinner vile and mean,
Can ever with the ransomed host,
In clean, white robes be seen? And can it be these hands of mine,
So spotted o'er to-day,
Can ever have their crimson stains
Entirely washed away? Oh! can these roving eyes, so prone
Forbidden things to meet,
E'er in humility be found
Low down at Jesus' feet? And can this busy, plotting brain,
So constantly employed,
Be into sweet submission brought,
And wholly sanctified? And can this foolish, wayward tongue,
Which grieves the friends I love,
E'er hope to sing angelic songs
With pure bright ones above? Oh! can I hope this restless heart,
And this poor aching head,
With these poor weary halting feet,
The golden streets shall thread? Oh! must I fail through weariness,
When just ahead I see
The beckoning fields of Beulah rise,
And life's enduring tree. Oh! need I fail, when such a friend
Pleads now at court for me,
And I can hear the dying groans,
Of Him of Calvary? I must not fail! Lord Jesus, help;
Low at thy feet I pray;
From out thy bright and holy place
Give strength unto my day.
M. A. HOLT.