O God, impart Thy blessing to my cries,
Tho' I trust deeply, yet I daily err;
The waters of my heart are oft astir,
An Angel's there! and yet I cannot rise!
I wish that Christ were here among us still,
Proffering His bosom to His servant's brow,
But oh! that holy voice comes o'er us now
Like twilight echoes from a distant hill:
No mountain-sermons, and no ruthful gaze!
No voice sweet-toned, and blessing all the time!
No cheerly credence gather'd from His face!
No path thro' hamlets in the eve or prime!
No gentle prayers for all our faded race!
And those whose hearts are half-unstrung with crime.