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From the same.

Joy of my soul, when Thou art gone,

And I (which cannot be) alone;

(It cannot, Lord! for I on Thee

Depend, and Thou abid’st in me;)—

But when Thou dost the sense repress,

The ecstatic influence of Thy grace;

Seem to desert Thy loved abode,

And leave me sunk beneath my load:

O, what a damp and deadly shade,

What horrors then my soul invade!

Less ghastly lours the gloomiest night

Than the eclipse that veils Thy light.

O! do not, do not thus withdraw,

Lest sin surprise me void of awe,

And when Thou dost but shine less clear,

Say boldly, that Thou art not here.

Thou, Lord, and only Thou canst tell

How dead the life which then I feel;

Pursued by sin’s insulting boast,

That “I may seek—but Thou art lost!”

I half believe (the deadly cold

Does all my powers so fast infold)

That sin says true. But while I grieve,

Again I see Thy face, and live!

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