If I have wandered in those paths Of life I ought to shun, As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done; Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me With passions wild and strong; And list’ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside, Do Thou, All-Good! for such thou art, In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention I have err’d, No other plea I have, But Thou art good; and Goodness still Delighteth to _forgive_. _Burns._ _Forgiveness!_ ’tis a joyful sound, To rebel sinners doomed to die: Publish the bliss the world around; Ye seraphs shout it from the sky! ’Tis the rich gift of love divine; ’Tis full--outmeasuring every crime; Unclouded shall its glories shine, And feel no change by changing time. For this stupendous love of heaven, What grateful honour shall we shew? Where much transgression is _forgiven_, Let love with equal ardour glow. Cheered by the hope of pardoning grace, We come Thy mercy, Lord, to prove; Like weeping Mary, let us taste A pledge of Thy _forgiving_ love. _Gibbons._ She rose from her untroubled sleep, And put aside her soft brown hair, And in a tone as low and deep As love’s first whisper, breath’d a prayer. And there, from slumber soft and warm, Like a young spirit fresh from heaven, She bow’d her slight and graceful form, And humbly pray’d to be _forgiven_. Oh, God! if souls unsoiled as these Need daily mercy from Thy throne, If she, upon her bended knees, Our loveliest and purest one-- She, with a face so clear and bright, We deem her some stray child of light; If she, with those soft eyes in tears, Day after day, in her first years, Must kneel and pray for grace from Thee, What far, far deeper need have we? How hardly if she win not heaven, Will our wild errors be _forgiven_? _N. P. Willis._ When on the fragrant sandal tree The woodman’s axe descends, And she who bloomed so beauteously Beneath the keen stroke bends-- E’en on the edge that brought her death, Dying, she breathes her sweetest breath, As if to token in her fall “Peace to her foes, and love to all.” How hardly man this lesson learns, To smile, and bless the hand that spurns; To see the blow, and feel the pain, But render only love again. This spirit ne’er was given on earth; One had it,--he of heavenly birth; Reviled, rejected, and betrayed, No curse He breathed, no plaint He made, But when in death’s deep pang He sighed, Prayed for his murderers--and died. _Edmeston._