When works of Law and Human Pride oppress,
the soul is blackened; ashen, as the dust.
When heavy steam of fear chokes all finesse
in godly things, Hell’s vapours swell — combust.
Do we — in lofty expectation bound
to think ourselves the eye of every storm —
not breathe an angry threat the world around,
to drive upon our Lord, and Him transform?
Refreshing breeze, O Providence of God,
despite the fluctuating winds of life!
How lovely is the air of grace: abroad,
without, and in the darkest valleys rife?
Tho’ gale and gust from Love would man divide,
Groom ceases not to shelter His dear Bride.

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