I WILL SING OF THY MERCIES, O MY GOD!
By I. Deeley
"Count my mercies," did you say?
Each as it comes from day to day?
Say, count the sands on ocean shore,
And stars which shine forevermore;
Number the hairs on every head,
And count the sparrows daily fed,
The blades of grass on glen and glade,
With all things else His hands have made.
Then write their totals if you can,
Or measure with a human span;
And if you fail, as sure you will,
Pause, let your busy brain be still:
My mercies come so thick, so fast!
Then what of all now gone and past?
Like autumn leaves they're strewn around
My path, till scarce a spot is found
Of room to place or time to count—
Unnumbered still the vast amount.
O wondrous love! They all outvie
My passing moments as they fly.
In wakeful hours or hours of sleep
Their rapid onward pace they keep,
Nor shall eternal ages know
A time when mercies cease to flow.