A MORTUL PRAYER

Oh! Thou that vaileth from all eyes

The glory of Thy face,

And setteth throned behind the skies

In Thy abiding-place:

Though I but dimly recko'nize

Thy purposes of grace;

And though with weak and wavering

Deserts, and vexd with fears,

I lift the hands I can not wring

All dry of sorrow's tears,

Make puore my prayers that daily wing

Theyr way unto Thy ears!

Oh! with the hand that tames the flood

And smooths the storm to rest,

Make ba'mmy dews of all the blood

That stormeth in my brest,

And so refresh my hart to bud

And bloom the loveliest.

Lull all the clammer of my soul

To silunce; bring release

Unto the brane still in controle

Of doubts; bid sin to cease,

And let the waves of pashun roll

And kiss the shores of peace.

Make me to love my feller-man —

Yea, though his bitterness

Doth bite as only adders can —

Let me the fault confess,

And go to him and clasp his hand

And love him none the less.

So keep me, Lord, ferever free

From vane concete er whim;

And he whose pius eyes can see

My faults, however dim,—

Oh! let him pray the least fer me,

And me the most fer him.