Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till

So Holy And So Perfect Is My Love, And I In Such A Poverty Of Grace, That I Shall Think It A Most Plenteous Crop To Glean The Broken Ears After The Man That The Main Harvest Reaps.

Cease To Lament For That Thou Canst Not Help; And Study Help For That Which Thou Lamentest.

Assume A Virtue If You Have It Not.

But Love That Comes Too Late, Like A Remorseful Pardon Slowly Carried, To The Great Sender Turns A Sour Offense, Crying, 'that's Good That's Gone.

Pardon's The Word To All.