The poem
O God, whose favorable eye, The sin-sick soul revives, Holy and heavenly is the joy Thy shining presence gives.
Not such as hypocrites suppose, Who with a graceless heart Taste 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 reclaim The soul from Satan's power; That make me blush for what I am, And hate my sin the more.
'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.