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Composed in Prison.

A LITTLE bird I am,
A Shut from the fields of air ;
And in my cage I sit and fing

To Him who placed me there ;
Well pleased a prisoner to be,
Because, my God, it pleases Thee.

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Thou hast an ear to hear,

A heart to love and bless ; And though my notes were e'er so rude,

Thou wouldst not hear the less ; Because Thou knowest, as they fall, That love, sweet love, inspires them all.

My cage confines me round;

Abroad I cannot Ay;

But though my wing is closely bound,

My heart 's at liberty.
My prison walls cannot control
The Aight, the freedom, of the soul.

O, it is good to soar

These bolts and bars above,
To Him whose purpose I adore,

Whose providence I love ;
And in Thy mighty will to find
The joy, the freedom, of the mind.

Madame Guyon. 1648 - 1717.


In Prison.

CTRONG are all the walls around me,
w That hold me all the day;
But they who thus have bound me

Cannot keep God away :
My very dungeon walls are dear,
Because the God I love is here.

They know, who thus oppress me,

'Tis hard to be alone ;

But know not One can bless me

Who comes through bars and stone: He makes my dungeon's darkness bright, And fills my bosom with delight.

Thy love, O God! restores me

From fighs and tears to praise ; And deep my soul adores Thee,

Nor thinks of time or place : I ask no more, in good or ill, But union with Thy holy will.

'Tis that which makes my treasure,

'Tis that which brings my gain ; Converting woe to pleasure,

And reaping joy from pain.
O, 't is enough, whate'er befall,
To know that God is All in All.

Madame Guyon. 1648 – 1717.


In Prison.

L OVE constitutes my crime ;

- For this they keep me here, Imprisoned thus so long a time

For Him I hold so dear;

And yet I am, as when I came,
The subject of this holy Alame.

How can I better grow!

How from my own heart Ay!
Those who imprison me should know

True love can never die.
Yea, tread and crush it with disdain,
And it will live and burn again.

And am I then to blame?

He's always in my fight;
And having once inspired the fame,

He always keeps it bright.
For this they smite me and reprove,
Because I cannot cease to love.

What power shall dim its ray,

Dropped burning from above!
Eternal Life shall ne'er decay ;

God is the life of love.
And when its source of life is o’er,
And only then, 't will shine no more.

Madame Guyon. 1648 – 1717.


In Prison.

OVE! if thy destined sacrifice am I, L Come, Nay thy victim, and prepare thy fires ; Plunged in thy depths of mercy, let me die The death which every soul that lives desires.

I watch my hours, and see them fleet away ;
The time is long that I have languished here;
Yet all my thoughts thy purposes obey,
With no reluctance, cheerful and sincere.

To me 't is equal, whether love ordain
My life or death, appoint me pain or ease ;
My soul perceives no real ill in pain;
In ease or health no real good she sees.

One good she covets, and that good alone,
To choose thy will, from selfish bias free ;
And to prefer a cottage to a throne,
And grief to comfort, if it pleases Thee.

That we should bear the cross is thy command,
Die to the world, and live to self no more ;
Suffer, unmoved, beneath the rudest hand;
When shipwrecked pleased as when upon the shore.

Madame Guyon. 1648 - 1717.

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