Should all life’s pleasures disappear, Support me with Thy heavenly love,— And when my course is ended here, Oh, raise my soul to bliss above, With saints to magnify Thy fame, And bless, for ever bless Thy name! XV. THE RETROSPECT. When on Zion’s hill we rest In the mansions of the blest, What a strange and fleeting dream All life’s hopes and fears will seem? What will all our pleasures here— Titles—honours—then appear? Like a bubble on the river, Bright awhile—then lost for ever! Things that now employ each thought, Warmly wished for, fondly sought— We may smile, and wonder much Heirs of Heaven could stoop to such! Will the petty wrongs of earth Seem one moment’s anger worth; Or a friend’s depart—the sorrow Felt by those so soon to follow? All that time bestowed will be Lost in bright eternity; Save the harvest Christian Love Sowed on earth—to reap above! XVI. THE SUPPLICANT. A helpless sinner in Thy sight, At mercy’s threshold, Lord, I wait; Inscribed in characters of light, Thy promise shines upon the gate. “Ask—ye shall receive; Seek—and ye shall find; Knock—and enter in, but leave All sins and doubts behind.” I _ask_ Thy boundless grace to share, I _seek_ for pardon through Thy blood, I _knock_ by earnest, fervent prayer,— Lord, hear and answer me for good! “Ask—ye shall receive; Seek—and ye shall find; Knock—and enter in, but leave All sins and doubts behind.” Yes; each mistrustful doubt of Thee, Each long-indulged, besetting sin, Repented and renounced must be By those who dare to venture in. Then asking—we receive, And seeking—we shall find, Till, entering Heaven’s gate, we leave Earth, sin, and death behind! XVII. WEAVER’S HYMN. How swiftly flies man’s mortal thread Within the mighty loom of Time; What brilliant hues on some are shed, While some are stained with woe or crime! But they bright webs are weaving, Who, trusting and believing, Through scenes of sorrow, scenes of joy, God’s grace are still receiving. ’Tis thus the Christian we behold In sickness and in want resigned, Because religion’s thread of gold Is in his gloomy lot entwined. A bright web he is weaving When, trusting and believing, He from a loving Father’s hand Each trial is receiving. Death soon will break our thread in twain, Time’s busy loom itself must rest; Nought but a winding-sheet remain Of all that mortals here possest. Then every trial leaving, No more o’er sorrows grieving, How blest the Christian, from his Lord The crown of life receiving!