English

Seventy years have now passed by,
Lord of this my pilgrim time
I should like to begin again
To seek God and eternity,
So I may win a little more
Before I hasten on from here.

Seventy years my life has lasted,
And God has added from His abundance
Still four more years to these
That I must say, in justice,
His goodness is great,
His faithfulness is altogether
Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!

Still two more years the Lord has given
Purely from His loving kindness
I should like to live contritely
In this precious time of grace.
Today is the time of dying
Tomorrow is the time of inheriting.

Five more years have still been added
From the sea of eternity,
In these I've had much enjoyment
From the kindness of the Highest.
'Tis true that God alone is love,
The purest promptings of His love
Change all my sufferings
So that through the power of Jesus
All the hardships of old age
Help me to a blessed life

To God alone be the honor
And to no other one.
Like a father He has borne me,
Like a mother He has fought for me,
Like a brother He has helped me,
Like a sister He has loved me,
Till I have grown old and feeble
And in children's ways am living.
Now I know nothing else to do
But to love the Highest Good.
If I must suffer further pains
Never shall they part me from
The purest impulse of true love.
Alexander Mack

If I should write henceforth
Something more than this,
My mind would have to stay
Of this same view;
God does all the good,
The evil comes from nature.
Love is His command,
And man is but a worm.
Love, indeed, makes men small
But thereby makes them great
'Tis this that brings the Bride
Into the Bridegroom's arms.

Now after five and eighty years
With all their vanished hours
I still have learned some more for my true comfort.
The bird has found its nest,
The nest, indeed, is small
The watchword is, be nothing!
And one can wish and try for nothing
Except what God is willing to bestow
How beautifully I rest here,
When I with all my heart acknowledge
Honoring God, that I am nothing.

A LAS that I have done so great a wrong
Unto the fairest maiden of my song,
Divine Marina, who in Limos' cave
Lies ever fearful of a living grave,
And night and day upon the harden'd stones
Rests, if a rest can be amongst the moans
Of dying wretches; where each minute all
Stand still afraid to hear the death's-man call.
Thrice had the golden sun his hot steeds wash'd
In the west main, and thrice them smartly lash'd
Out of the balmy east, since the sweet maid
Had in that dismal cave been sadly laid.

Limos had all this while been wanting thence,
And but just Heav'n preserv'd pure innocence
By the two birds, her life to air had flit,
Ere the curst caitiff should have forced it.
The first night that he left her in his den,
He got to shore, and near th' abodes of men
That live as we by tending of their flocks,
To interchange for Ceres' golden locks,
Or with the neatherd for his milk and cream,
Things we respect more than the diadem
His choice made-dishes. O! the golden age
Met all contentment in no surplusage

As in the rainbow's many-colour'd hue,
Here see we watchet deepen'd with a blue:
There a dark tawny with a purple mix'd,
Yellow and flame, with streaks of green betwixt,
A bloody stream into a blushing run,
And ends still with the colour which begun;
Drawing the deeper to a lighter stain,
Bringing the lightest to the deep'st again,
With such rare art each mingleth with his fellow,
The blue with watchet, green and red with yellow;
Like to the changes which we daily see
About the dove's neck with variety,