True and False Comforts

I

God, whose favourable eye
  The sin-sick soul revives,
Holy and heav’nly is the joy
  Thy shining presence gives.

II

Not such as hypocrites suppose,
  Who, with a graceless heart,
Taste not of thee, but drink a dose
  Prepared by Satan’s art.

III

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

IV

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?

V

Be mine the comforts that reclaim
  The soul from Satan’s pow’r;
That make me blush for what I am,
  And hate my sin the more.

VI

’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.