O God, Whose Favourable Eye The Sin-Sick Soul Revives, Holy And Heavenly Is The Joy Thy Shining Presence Gives. Not Such As Hypocrites Suppose, Who With A Graceless Heart Taste Not Of Thee, But Drink A Dose, Prepared By Satan'S Art. Intoxicating Joys Are Theirs, Who, While They Boast Their Light, And Seem To Soar Above The Stars, Are Plunging Into Night. 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? Be Mine The Comforts That Reclaim The Soul From Satan'S Power; That Make Me Blush For What I Am, And Hate My Sin The More. '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.