Part 21 (1/2)

His precious balms, my G.o.d hath shed, Upon my highly favoured head: And with the blessings of the Lord, My larder is completely stor'd.

His bounty and his mercies past, Shall follow me unto the last; And, for his favours shown to me, His house, my home shall ever be.

To G.o.d, the Father--and the Son-- And Holy Spirit--Three-in-one, Let us our bounden homage pay, Each hour, each moment of the day!

SHORT IS THE LIFE OF MAN.

BY REV. REES PRICHARD, M.A.

TRANSLATED BY THE REV. W. EVANS.

Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a tender flow'ret, droops and dies, Or, like a race, it ends without delay, Or, like a vapour, vanishes away,

Or, like a candle, in each moment wastes, Or, like a packet under sail, it hastes, Or, like a courier, travels very fast, Or, like the shadow of a cloud, 'tis past.

Strong is our foe, but very weak the fort, Our death is certain, and our time is short; But as the hour of death's a secret still, Let us be ready, come He when he will.

CONCERNING THE DIVINE PROVIDENCE.

BY THE REV. REES PRICHARD, M.A.

TRANSLATED BY THE REV. WILLIAM EVANS.

G.o.d doth withhold no good from those Who meekly fear him here below; On them he grace and fame bestows, Nor loss, nor cross they e'er shall know.

Cast thou on him thy troubles all, And he will thee with plenty feed; He will not let the righteous fall, Nor ever suffer them to need.

G.o.d says (of that advantage make)!

”Open thy mouth, I will thee feed;”

Pains in some honest calling take, And all thy labours shall succeed.

Though lions, and their young beside, Are oft distress'd for want of food; Yet they, who in their G.o.d confide, Shall never want for aught that's good.

G.o.d gives the sinful pagan food, Supplies the Ethiopian's need, His very foes he fills with good, And shall he not his servants feed?

At too much riches never aim, But be content with what is thine; G.o.d never will those folks disclaim, Who duly keep his laws divine.

Implore G.o.d's help in every ill, He is the Giver of all good; But should'st thou trust thy wit and skill, Thou'lt lose the prize that by thee stood.

Full many a man still lives in need, Because on G.o.d he ne'er rely'd; Full many a one still begs his bread, Who did in his own strength confide.

Since G.o.d is always to them kind, Why do they die for want of aid?

Because they on their strength reclin'd, And ne'er for his a.s.sistance pray'd.