THE INDWELLING OF THE HOLY SPIRIT.
By N. Y. Observer
O! can it, can it be!
Blest Comforter divine!
That Thou would'st dwell in me—
In this vile heart of mine? This heart so fond of earth—
Of vanities and toys—
Of idle scenes of mirth—
And transitory joys? A heart so full of care,
Anxiety and pain;
And often in despair,
And willing to complain? And often led astray,
By error's vain disguise;
And shunning wisdom's way,
When plain before my eyes! And ready to forego
My blest Redeemer's love,
And choose the things below,
Instead of those above! So anxious to attain,
A sceptre or a crown;
Or if the world disdain,
Avoid its hateful frown! So heedless of the tomb,
When just before my eye;
So reckless of my doom,
If unprepared to die! And canst thou deign to dwell
In this vile heart of mine,
Amazing grace to tell!
Amazing and divine!