The Hiding Place
See the gloomy gath'ring cloud
Hanging o'er a sinful land!
Sure the Lord proclaims aloud,
Times of trouble are at hand:
Happy they, who love his name!
They shall always find him near;
Though the earth were wrapped in flame,
They have no just cause for fear.
Hark! his voice in accents mild,
O, how comforting and sweet!
Speaks to every humble child,
Pointing out a sure retreat!
Come, and in my chambers hide,
To my saints of old well known;
There you safely may abide,
Till the storm be overblown.
You have only to repose
On my wisdom, love, and care;
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poem by John Newton
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Lot In Sodom
How hurtful was the choice of Lot,
Who took up his abode
Because it was a fruitful spot
With them who feared not God!
A pris'ner he was quickly made,
Bereaved of all his store;
And, but for Abraham's timely aid,
He had returned no more.
Yet still he seemed resolved to stay
As if it were his rest;
Although their sins from day to day
His righteous soul distressed.
Awhile he stayed with anxious mind,
Exposed to scorn and strife;
At last he left his all behind,
And fled to save his life.
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poem by John Newton
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Salvation Drawing Nearer
Darkness overspreads us here,
But the night wears fast away;
Jacob's star will soon appear,
Leading on eternal day!
Now 'tis time to rouse from sleep,
Trim our lamps and stand prepared;
For our Lord strict watch to keep,
Lest he find us off our guard.
Let his people courage take,
Bear with a submissive mind
All they suffer for his sake,
Rich amends they soon will find:
He will wipe away their tears,
Near himself appoint their lot;
All their sorrows, pains and fears,
Quickly then wilt be forgot.
Though already saved, by grace,
From the hour we first believed;
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poem by John Newton
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Vanity Of The Creature Sanctified
Honey though the bee prepares,
An envenomed sting he wears;
Piercing thorns a guard compose
Round the fragrant blooming rose.
Where we think to find a sweet,
Oft a painful sting we meet:
When the rose invites our eye,
We forget the thorn is nigh.
Why are thus our hopes beguiled?
Why are all our pleasures spoiled?
Why do agony and woe
From our choicest comforts grow?
Sin has been the cause of all!
'Twas not thus before the fall:
What but pain, and thorn, and sting,
From the root of sin can spring?
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poem by John Newton
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The Believer's Safety
Incarnate God! the soul that knows
Thy name's mysterious power
Shall dwell in undisturbed repose,
Nor fear the trying hour.
Thy wisdom, faithfulness and love,
To feeble helpless worms;
A buckler and a refuge prove,
From enemies and storms.
In vain the fowler spreads his net,
To draw them from thy care;
Thy timely call instructs their feet,
To shun the artful snare.
When like a baneful pestilence,
Sin mows its thousands down
On every side, without defence,
Thy grace secures thine own.
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poem by John Newton
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The Prodigal Son
Afflictions, though they seem severe;
In mercy oft are sent;
They stopped the prodigal's career,
And forced him to repent.
Although he no relentings felt
Till he had spent his store;
His stubborn heart began to melt
When famine pinched him sore.
What have I gained by sin, he said,
But hunger, shame, and fear;
My father's house abounds with bread,
While I am starving here.
I'll go, and tell him all I've done,
And fall before his face
Unworthy to be called his son,
I'll seek a servant's place.
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poem by John Newton
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The Importunate Widow
Our Lord, who knows full well
The heart of every saint;
Invites us, by a parable,
To pray and never faint.
He bows his gracious ear,
We never plead in vain;
Yet we must wait, till he appear,
And pray, and pray again.
Though unbelief suggest,
Why should we longer wait?
He bids us never give him rest,
But be importunate.
'Twas thus a widow poor,
Without support or friend,
Beset the unjust judge's door,
And gained, at last, her end.
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poem by John Newton
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Love-Tokens
Afflictions do not come alone,
A voice attends the rod;
By both he to his saints is known,
A Father and a God!
Let not my children slight the stroke
I for chastisement send;
Nor faint beneath my kind rebuke,
For still I am their friend.
The wicked I perhaps may leave
Awhile, and not reprove;
But all the children I receive
I scourge, because I love.
If therefore you were left without
This needful discipline;
You might, with cause, admit a doubt,
If you, indeed, were mine.
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poem by John Newton
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The Leper
Oft as the leper's case I read,
My own described I feel;
Sin is a leprosy indeed,
Which none but Christ can heal.
Awhile I would have passed for well,
And strove my spots to hide;
Till it broke out incurable,
Too plain to be denied.
Then from the saints I sought to flee,
And dreaded to be seen;
I thought they all would point at me,
And cry, Unclean, unclean!
What anguish did my soul endure,
Till hope and patience ceased?
The more I strove myself to cure,
The more the plague increased.
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poem by John Newton
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Weeping Mary
Mary to her Saviour's tomb
Hasted at the early dawn;
Spice she brought, and sweet perfume,
But the Lord, The loved, was gone.
For awhile she weeping stood,
Struck with sorrow and surprise;
Shedding tears, a plenteous flood,
For her heart supplied her eyes.
Jesus, who is always near,
Though too often unperceived
Came, his drooping child to cheer,
And enquired, Why she grieved?
Though at first she knew him not,
When he called her by her name,
Then her griefs were all forgot,
For she found he was the same.
Grief and sighing quickly fled
When she heard his welcome voice;
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poem by John Newton
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