Hope & Comfort
He who lives but for God is never sad, save at having offended God.
My soul is dying, my soul is damning. Were my soul but in a good condition, and were I but sure of it, ah! how rich should I esteem myself, though blessed but with bread and water!
Now I grow old, and the soft-gathered years Have calmed, yea dulled the heart’s swift fluttering beat; But a quiet hope that keeps its household seat Is better than recurrent glories fleet.
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