Psalms

 There is in the writings of old Thomas Fuller one curiously quaint paragraph, which I have often wanted to quote: "Lord, my voice by nature is harsh and untunable, and it is vain to lavish any art to better it. Can my singing of psalms be pleasing to Thy ears which is unpleasant to my own? Yet, though I cannot chant with the nightingale, or chirp with the blackbird, I had rather chatter with the swallow, yea, rather croak with the raven, than be altogether silent. Hadst Thou given me a better voice, I would have praised Thee with a better voice; now what my music wants in sweetness, let it have in sense — singing praises with my understanding. Yea, Lord, create in me a new heart, therein to make melody, and I will be contented with my old voice, until, in Thy due time, being admitted unto the choir of heaven, I have another, more harmonious, bestowed on me." He does the best work, in this moping, croaking age, whose cheerful face gives the benediction of a happy heart wherever a heavy step is treading along just behind him. Think of the martyr Ignatius exclaiming, "Oh, would that I could do what would make all the earth adore Thee, and psalm to Thee."


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