July 25

Lord, let my soul o'erburdened then feel thee

Thrilling through all its brain's stupidity.

If I must slumber, heedless of ill harms,

Let it not be but in my Father's arms;

Outside the shelter of his garment's fold,

All is a waste, a terror-haunted wold.—

Lord, keep me. 'Tis thy child that cries. Behold.