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Poem by Henry Vaughan
My God, how gracious art thou! I had slipt Almost to hell, And on the verge of that dark, dreadful pit Did hear them yell, But O thy love! thy rich, almighty love That sav'd my soul, And checkt their fury, when I saw them move, And heard them howl; O my sole comfort, take no more these ways, This hideous path, And I will mend my own without delays, Cease thou thy wrath! I have deserv'd a thick, Egyptian damp, Dark as my deeds, Should mist within me, and put out that lamp Thy spirit feeds; A darting conscience full of stabs and fears; No shade but Yew, Sullen, and sad eclipses, cloudy spheres, These are my due. But he that with his blood, (a price too dear,) My scores did pay, Bid me, by virtue from him, challenge here The brightest day; Sweet, downy thoughts; soft lily-shades; calm streams; Joys full and true; Fresh, spicy mornings; and eternal beams These are his due.
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