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TWENTY-SECOND SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY
Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? St. Matthew xviii. 21.
What liberty so glad and gay, As where the mountain boy, Reckless of regions far away, A prisoner lives in joy? |
The dreary sounds of crowded earth, The cries of camp or town, Never untun’d his lonely mirth, Nor drew his visions down. |
The snow-clad peaks of rosy light That meet his morning view, The thwarting cliffs that bound his sight, They bound his fancy too. |
Two ways alone his roving eye For aye may onward go, Or in the azure deep on high, Or darksome mere below. |
O blest restraint! more blessed range! Too soon the happy child His nook of homely thought will change For life’s seducing wild: |
Too soon his alter’d day-dreams show This earth a boundless space, With sun-bright pleasures to and fro Sporting in joyous race: |
While of his narrowing heart each year, Heaven less and less will fill, Less keenly, thorough his grosser ear, The tones of mercy thrill. |
It must be so: else wherefore falls The Saviour’s voice unheard, While from His pard’ning Cross He calls, “O spare as I have spar’d?” |
By our own niggard rule we try The hope to suppliants given! We mete out love, as if our eye Saw to the end of Heaven. |
Yes, ransom’d sinner! wouldst thou know How often to forgive, How dearly to embrace thy foe, Look where thou hop’st to live; — |
When thou hast told those isles of light, And fancied all beyond, Whatever owns, in depth or height, Creation’s wondrous bond; |
Then in their solemn pageant learn Sweet mercy’s praise to see: Their Lord resign’d them all, to earn The bliss of pardoning thee. |
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