Lord, when thou didst in chariots ride,
And on thy steeds of fire,
The mountains saw thee, and they shrank,
Appalled before thine ire;
The ocean uttered forth his voice
From out his deep, far home,
And lifted up his hands on high,
Radiant with virgin foam.
The sun beside his burning throne,
The moon in midnight's bower,
Stood awe-struck as thine arrows flashed,
All terrible in power:
Thou didst march through the stricken land,
In vengeance how severe!
Yet wast thou just when thou didst speak,
And when thou judgedst clear.
Like as a whirlwind had they come
Against thine own elect;
The haughty foe had dared assail
The men thou didst protect;
They sought thy chosen to devour,
But thou wast nigh to save,
And didst their joy to sorrow turn,—
Their triumph to the grave.
Amidst the conflict and the storm,
My God, I'll rest in thee,
When thus thy judgments are abroad,
Thy footsteps on the sea;
The lip may quiver at the voice
Of thine approaching day,
The frail heart tremble at its woes,
But thou wilt be my stay.
Although the fig-tree blossom not,
Nor verdure clothe the vine;
Though flock, nor herd, nor olive crown
The stores I thought were mine;
Yet I will in the Lord rejoice,
The Lord, my strength and shield; The God whose power, in sorrow's hour, Doth full salvation yield.
'N uair chaidh thu mach air t'eachaibh féin, 'S air carbadan na slàint',
Na beanntan chunnaic 's leagh mar chéir
Le h-eagal ann ad làthair;
An fhairge chuir a mach a guth
Bho'n doimhne, fad air falbh,
'S a làmhan thog a suas gu h-àrd
Le gàirich agus toirm.
A' ghrian gu'n d' sheas 'n a dealradh féin,
'S a ghealach san dubh-thràth,—
Sheas iad fo gheilt roimh t'shaighdean geur, Cho treun gu lot 's gu cràdh :
Roimh 'n fhearann thriall thu ann am feirg-
Do cheartas tha gun lùb!
Oir tha thu ceart 'n uair bheir thu breith,
A's fior 'n uair labhras tu.
Mar chuairt-ghaoith thàinig iad a nìos
Gu sgrios do phobuill féin;
An nàmhaid borb thug oidhirp ghrag
Gu ditheachadh do threud;
Dh'fheuch iad do shluagh a shlugadh suas,
Ach bha thu dlùth san uair,
An aoibhneas thionndaidh thu gu bròn,
'S an caithream fòs do'n uaigh.
Am measg gach trioblaid agus teinn
Mo thearmunn thu gach uair,
'N uair tha do bhreitheanais a mach,
'S do cheumaibh anns a' chuan;
An t-aingidh criothnaichidh le geilt
Roimh theachd do latha féin;
An cridhe anmhunn géillidh sìos,
Ach 's tusa ghnàth mo stéidh.
Ged air crann-fige nach tig blàth,
'S air fionan nach tig fàs;
Ged thréigeas buar a's greidh gu léir,
'S gach creutair ged théid bàs;
Gidheadh 'san Triath bidh mise ait-
'S e féin mo neart 's mo sgiath;
An Ti, gu beachd, an là na h-airc'
A ni dhomh taic a's dìon.
The greatest blessings lent us while on earth,
We by their loss are often taught their worth;
Thus in affliction, health is chiefly prized,
The dead esteem'd, who living were despised;
And time, most precious time, recall'd in vain,
While godliness, too late, is counted gain.
Deluded mortal, flee the baits of sense,
Pursue not pleasure at your soul's expense;
Think on the shortness of the present state,
For, Oh! what folly, to be wise too late!
Hear, for thy comfort, poor believing soul,
O'er whom the waves of whelming sorrows roll;
God has declar'd thou shalt receive no ill,
Without His knowledge, or against His will;
And when afflictions shall his saints befall,
Has promis'd graciously to hear their call.
O then, thrice happy soul! assuage thy grief,
He will at all times be thy sure relief;
Thy God's thy glory who preserves thy ways,
Strive thou to live as well as speak his praise.
Still, for thy further consolation know,
The Lord for wisest ends appoints thee woe;
To wean thee from the world, thy patience prove,
To show thy sonship and a Father's love.
Will life, with all our frail enjoyments here,
But as a shadow or a dream appear?
Is day far spent, and is the night at hand,
Which neither youth nor riches can withstand?
Now is the accepted time, receive the grace,
In Scripture offered to a guilty race.
Do what thou hast to do with all thy might,
Lest this thy day should close in endless night.
Seek true repentance and religion prize,
In youth, in manhood, and in age be wise.
Let not the Christian under grief despair,
But every pain with resignation bear;
For through afflictions true believers rise,
To realms of endless day beyond the skies,
COMHFHURTACHD DO'N CHRIOSDUIDH.
Gach t-àgh a's motha tha 'n taobh bhos do'n uaigh An luach cha 'n fhios duinn gus an teich iad uainn, Mar so le bròiteachd 's fios duinn luach na slàint', 'S mairbh fo dheadh theisteas 'bha ri'm beò fo thàir; An tiom 'chaidh seach' cha tig air ais gu bràth, Cuir luach air cràbhadh 'n uair a ni dhuit stàth. A chreutair bhàsmhoir teich o shùgradh baoth, 'S na rach an cunnart air son shòlas faoin; Cuimhnich cho goirid 's a tha t'ùine bhos, Gu còmhlachadh ri Di gu tràth dean deas. Eisd, a's gabh misneach, anaim dhìblidh, bhochd, 'S na cumadh tonnan buairidh thu fo sprochd, Oir esan gheall nach tig am feasd ort féin, Gun taing d'a thoilsan, truaighe, bròn, no péin: 'S 'n uair thig cruaidh-chàs, no éiginn, air a naoimh Gheall e gu'n éisd r'an gearan a's r'an caoidh. A mhuinntir shaorte, tiormaichibh 'ur deòir, Oir anns gach àm 's e féin 'ur slàint' 's 'ur treòir: 'S e Dia 'ur glòir' 's e threòiricheas 'ur ceum, 'S mar iobairt thaitneach thugaibh dha sibh féin. 'S a chum 'ur comhfhurtachd biodh fhiosaibh fòs Gu'r h-ann g'ur buannachd tha 'ur truaigh''s 'ur leòn, Gu'r cur an diosg' o dhìomhanais an t-saoghail, 'S a nochdadh gràdh 'ur n-Athar dhuibh faraon. Am bheil 'ur là mar sgail' no sòlas gearr A' ruith air falbh 's nach pill air ais gu bràth? An là tha seach', 's an oidhche tha aig làimh, A's maoin no òig cha chum air ais an t-àm. 'Se nis an t-àm tha taitneach, là nan gràs, 'Tha Dia, na Fhocal, 'tairgse do gach àl. Gach ni as ceart duit dean le t' uile neart Mu'n tig an oidhche dh' fhàgas truagh thu'm feasd. Gabh aithreachas, 's air cràbhadh cuir mòr luach, 'Sri t'òig' 's ri t'aois gu'm bi e dhuit mar dhuais. Ach feuch, a chreidmhich, nach bi thu fo bhròn, Gach deuchainn theinnteach giùlain mar is còir; Oir 's ann tré àmhgharan a théid sibh suas A mhealtuinn comunn sòlasach an Uain.
Then, poor benighted soul, complain no more,
But what thou canst not understand, adore.
Is pain thy lot? presume not to repine,
For thou art Christ's, and he is ever thine.
A few more sorrowing days, weeks, months or years,
A few more painful struggles, groans and tears,
And all thy conflicts, Christian, will be o'er,
And sin and grief distress thy soul no more.
Time swiftly flies, improve the moments lent,
Prepare for death, and husband each event;
Think not to trifle with the Lord most high,
Who views thine actions with a jealous eye.
Take heed of sleeping on enchanted ground,
Dream not of happiness where ills abound;
But know, though man to fancy here's a slave,
'Tis all reality beyond the grave!
Are light and darkness necessary here,
Does night as useful as the day appear?
So are afflictions, sickness, pain, and woe,
As health and pleasure, while we dwell below.
Then cease to murmur, poor desponding soul,
O'er whom afflictions on afflictions roll;
Hence learn what blessings on the Christian wait,
Both in the present and a future state;
Trust in the Lord, make him alone your stay,
He'll give thee strength according to thy day;
Thy sure support and best physician prove,
First sanctify afflictions, then remove.
The Lord's his God, his guardian, guide, and friend,
Mercy and goodness on his steps attend:
Eternal love his sun and shield appears,
In every danger to dispel his fears;
His beacon prove through life's tempestuous sea,
And blissful portion in eternity.
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