O God, whose favorable eye

The sin–sick soul revives;

Holy and heav’nly is the joy

Thy shining presence gives.

Not such as hypocrites suppose,

Who with a graceless heart,

Taste not of thee, but drink a dose

Prepared by Satan’s art.

Intoxicating joys are theirs,

Who while they boast their light,

And seem to soar above the stars,

Are plunging into night.

Lulled in a soft and fatal sleep,

They sin, and yet rejoice;

Were they indeed the Savior’s sheep,

Would they not hear his voice?

Be mine the comforts, that reclaim

The soul from Satan’s pow’r;

That make me blush for what I am,

And hate my sin the more.

’Tis joy enough, my All in All,

At thy dear feet to lie;

Thou wilt not let me lower fall,

And none can higher fly.