Day fifteen of the journey came with abysmal failures in purpose and direction. Failure to the point of sitting upon the road side and weeping, as if overtaken by a highwayman thief, beaten, robbed and left for dead. Day Sixteen dawned into a fog, covering the land with the mists, simplifying the complex landscape into only the essentials. Robbed of all my treasure, that is where I begin again. No good man is seen upon this highway. All pass upon the other side. Alone I stumble onward, this prize they say awaits at the end, this crown of life. Can this dead man walk again and claim this elusive, mysterious reward so many have trod before in search of?
A book arrived today, Olney Hymns by John Newton and William Cowper. It is written in the old English, with f's for sés. I leave you with a poem by Cowper.
Winter
See, how rude winter's icy hand
Has ftripp'd the trees, and feal'd the ground!
But fpring fhall foon his rage withftand,
And fpread new beauties all around.
My foul a fharper winter mourns,
Barren and fruitlefs I remain;
When will the gentle fpring return,
And bid my graces grow again?
Jefus, my glorious Sun, arife!
'Tis thine the frozen heart to move;
Oh! hufh thefe ftorns, and clear my fkies;
And let me feel they vital love!
Dear Lord, regard my feeble cry,
I faint and droop till thou appear;
Wilt thou permit thy plant to die?
Muft it be winter all the year?
Be ftill, my foul, and wait his hour,
With humble pray'r, and patient faith;
Till he reveals his gracious pow'r,
Repofe on what his promife faith.
He, by whofe all-commanding word
Seafons their changing courfe maintain,
In ev'ry change a pledge affords,
That none fhall feek his face in vain.
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