The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor; he hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach _deliverance_ to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised.--Luke, iv. 18. Break off your tears, ye saints, and tell How high our great _Deliverer_ reigns; Sing how He spoiled the hosts of hell, And led the monster, Death, in chains. _Watts._ Lord, I have put my trust in Thee, Turn not my confidence to shame; Thy promise is a rock to me, A tower of refuge is Thy name. Thou hast upheld me from the womb; Thou wert my strength and hope in youth; Now, trembling, bending o’er the tomb, I lean upon Thine arm of truth. Cast me not off in mine old age, Forsake me not in my last hour; The foe hath not forgone his rage, The lion ravens to devour. Me, through what troubles hast Thou brought! Me, with what consolations crown’d! Now be Thy last _deliverance_ wrought: My soul in peace with Thee be found! _J. Montgomery._ Open now the crystal fountain, Whence the healing streams do flow; Let the fiery cloudy pillar Lead me all my journey through: Strong _Deliverer_, Be thou still my strength and shield. _Oliver._ DELUSIONS. I also will choose their _delusions_, and will bring their fears upon them; because when I called, none did answer; when I spake, they did not hear: but they did evil before mine eyes, and chose that in which I delighted not.--Isaiah, lxvi. 4. God shall send them strong _delusion_, that they should believe a lie.--II. Thessalonians, ii. 11. Who therefore seeks in these True wisdom, finds her not, or by _delusion_. _Milton._ Dreams and _delusions_ play With man: he thinks not of his mortal fate: Death treads his silent way; The earth turns round, and then, too late, Man finds no beam is left of all his fancied state. Rise from your sleep, vain men! Look round, and ask if spirits born of Heaven, And bound to Heaven again, Were only lent or given To be in this mean round of shades and follies driven. Turn your unclouded eye Up to yon bright, to yon eternal spheres; And spurn the vanity Of time’s _delusive_ years, And all its flattering hopes, and all its frowning fears. What is the ground ye tread But a mere point compared with that vast space Around, above you spread-- Where, in the Almighty’s face, The present, future, past, hold an eternal place? _From the Spanish of Luis Ponce de Leon._