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Here and There by Hannah More

Charles Doe

Here bliss is short, imperfect, insincere,
But total, absolute, and perfect there.
Here time's a moment, short our happiest state;
There infinite duration is our date.
Here Satan tempts, and troubles e'en the best;
There Satan's power extends not to the blest.
In a weak, sinful body here I dwell;
But there I drop this frail and sickly shell.
Here my best thoughts are stained with guilt and fear,
But love and pardon shall be perfect there.
Here my best duties are defiled with sin;
There all is ease without, and peace within.
Here feeble faith supplies my only light,
There faith and hope are swallowed up in sight.
Here love of self my fairest works destroys,
There love of God shall perfect all my joys.
Here things, as in a glass, are darkly shown;
There I shall know as clearly as I'm known.
Frail are the fairest flowers which bloom below,
There freshest palms on roots immortal grow.
Here wants or cares perplex my anxious mind,
But spirits there a calm fruition find.
Here disappointments my best schemes destroy,
There those that sowed in tears shall reap in joy.
Here vanity is stamped on all below,
Perfection there on every good shall grow.
Here my fond heart is fastened on some friend,
Whose kindness may, whose life must, have an end,
But there no failure can I ever prove;
God cannot disappoint, for God is love.
Here Christ for sinners suffered, groaned, and bled;
But there he reigns the great triumphant head:
Here, mocked and scourged, he wore a crown of thorns;
A crown of glory there his brow adorns.
Here error clouds the will, and dims the sight;
There all is knowledge, purity and light.
Here, so imperfect is this mortal state,
If blest myself, I mourn some other's fate.
At every human wo I here repine;
The joy of every saint shall there be mine.
Here, if I lean, the world shall pierce my heart,
But there that broken reed and I shall part.
Here on no promised good can I depend,
But there the Rock of ages is my friend.
Here, if some sudden joy delight inspire,
The dread to lose it damps the rising fire;
But there, whatever good the soul employ,
The thought that 'tis eternal, crowns the joy.

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