True and False Comforts

O God, whose favourable eyeThe sin-sick soul revives,Holy and heavenly is the joyThy shining presence gives.

Not such as hypocrites suppose,Who with a graceless heartTaste not of Thee, but drink a dose,Prepared by Satan's art.

Intoxicating joys are theirs,Who while they boast their light,And seem to soar above the stars,Are plunging into night.

Lull'd in a soft and fatal sleep,They sin and yet rejoice;Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep,Would they not hear His voice?

Be mine the comforts that reclaimThe soul from Satan's power;That make me blush for what I am,And hate my sin the more.

&ls;Tis joy enough, my All in All,At Thy dear feet to lie;Thou wilt not let me lower fall,And none can higher fly.