I Will But Confess The

I Was Not Always A Man Of Woe.

Here Is Neither Want Of Appetite Nor Mouths, Pray Heaven We Be Not Scant Of Meat Or Mirth.

O Woman! In Our Hours Of Ease Uncertain, Coy, And Hard To Please, And Variable As The Shade By The Light Quivering Aspen Made; When Pain And Anguish Wring The Brow, A Ministering Angel Thou!

Wounds Sustained For The Sake Of Conscience Carry Their Own Balsam With The Blow.

That Day Of Wrath, That Dreadful Day. When Heaven And Earth Shall Pass Away.