::R2034 : page 217::
“ABIDE IN ME.”
That mystic word of thine, O sovereign Lord!
Is all too pure, too high, too deep for me;
Weary with striving, and with longing faint,
I breathe it back again in prayer to thee.
Abide in me—o’ershadow by thy love
Each half-formed purpose and dark thought of sin;
Quench, ere it rise, each selfish, low desire,
And keep my soul as thine—calm and divine.
As some rare perfume in a vase of clay
Pervades it with a fragrance not its own—
So, when thou dwellest in a mortal soul,
All heaven’s own sweetness seems around it thrown.
The soul alone, like a neglected harp,
Grows out of tune, and needs that Hand divine;
Dwell thou within it, tune and touch the chords,
Till every note and string shall answer thine.
::R2035 : page 218::
Abide in me: there have been moments pure,
When I have seen thy face and felt thy power;
Then evil lost its grasp, and, passion hushed,
Owned the divine enchantment of the hour.
These were but seasons beautiful and rare;
Abide in me, and they shall ever be;
I pray thee now fulfil my earnest prayer—
Come and abide in me, and I in thee.
Harriet Beecher Stowe.
— September 15, 1896 —
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