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by Amos Russel Wells

My sins are like an arrow-flight
That hurtles o'er the field.—
Like arrows from an ambuscade;
But God is like a shield.

My sins are like a wintry frost,
And slowly, one by one,
My joys and powers they seal in death;
But God is like a sun.

My sins are like a malady
Increasing through the years;
But like a good physician, He,
The healing God, appears.

My sins are like the ocean waves
That surge with angry shock.—
The treacherous, inconstant waves;
But God is like a rock.

My sins are like a parched land
With thirst and hunger dead;
But like the living waters, God,
And like the living bread.

My sins are like a wandering
In deserts drear and cold;
But God is like a shepherd kind,
And God is like a fold.

Like all things hurtful, harsh, and foul,
Are these my ravening sins;
But God is like all graciousness
That helps and heals and wins.

And yet without the loving Christ
And His compelling rod,
My heart would leap to follow sin
And disavow my God.

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