[My infant Days, my Childhood past]

My infant Days, my Childhood past,

And time is travelling on in haste,

It flies with every Breath;

Think, O my Soul, while yet it lasts,

Art thou prepar’d for Death?                                              

Follies and trifles light as air

From day to day my heart ensnare,

And tempt away my Soul

From all that’s worthy good and fair,

Far as the distant pole.                                                        

Then I reflect with shame and pain

And strive to shun yet strive in vain,

The alluring, guilty toys;

Desiring, longing to obtain

A taste of far nobler Joys.                                                       

May powerful Grace in Mercy shine

On this rebellious Heart of mine,

And shew my feet the road,

The living Way, the Path divine

To Happiness and God.                                                          

I’d fix my Hope and trust alone

On Jesus’ Blood who died t’ attone

For Sin, surprizing Grace

That God should give his only Son

To save a wretched Race.                                                          

O could I see my Int’rest clear

In that rich blood, no more I’d fear

To drop this feeble Clay

But yield to Death without a fear

And joyful hail the day.

Text: Timothy Whelan, gen. ed., Nonconformist Women Writers, 8 vols. (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2011), vol. 4, pp. 131-32; MS, Steele Collection, STE 10/2, Angus Library, Regent's Park College, Oxford.