Song Of Solcae

Thou sweet hand of God that woundest my heart. Thou makes me amile, yet thou raakest me smart; Itseemaas if God were at ball play, and I, The barder He strikes me, the hlgher I lly. I own it, He bruises, He presses me sore, Yet the liammer and chisfel afflict me DO more. Shall I teil you the reagon? It is that I see That the sculptor will carve out an angel for me. I s'irink froinnosuffcring liow painful.so'erc. When once I can see that my Uod's hand is there ; For soft on the anvil the iron mast glow Ere the Smith with bis Immmer, deals blow upon blow. For no souud from the organ can swell on the breeze 'TUI the organist's fingers press down on the keys ; Or wliat shall the sheaves oq the barn floor avail, 'Till the thresher shall beat out the ehafï' with lus Bail. 'Tis onlyaraomeat God chastens with pain Joy follows on like suushine on rain, Then bear thou what God on thy spirit shall lay Be uumb- fout when tempted to murrnur - then pray.,