Sovereignty Of God And Free Agency Of Man.

Thou art a perfect Sovereign, oh my God!
And I rejoice to think that thou art so;
That all events are under thy control,
And that thou knowest all I think and do.
But some may ask, "then why am I to blame
Because I sin, if God hath made me thus?"
Stop, stop, my friend, God tempteth not to sin,
Thou dost it of thy own free will and choice.
Though God is Sovereign, we free agents are,
Accountable to him for all we do,
Feel, think, or say; and at the last great day,
A most exact account must render too.
With this conclusion be thou satisfied -
For all who will accept him, Christ hath died.

Sept. 19, 1862.

        *        *        *        *        *

God is a Sovereign, man free agent too;
How these to reconcile I do not know:
But this I know, if lost, the blame is mine,
If saved, the praise, oh God! be only thine.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow was an American poet whose works often reflected themes of nature and personal sentiment. Though not widely known today, she contributed to the literary scene of her time with a delicate touch and a keen observation of the world around her. Her poetry, characterized by its emotive language and thoughtful composition, provides a window into the sensibilities of her era. While specific details about her life remain sparse, her literary legacy continues through her published works and the resonance they hold for readers.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

To A Friend In The City, From Her Friend In The Country.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

To My Friend Mr. J. Ellis.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

The Kings And Queens Of England

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

For My Grandsons, Eddy And Ally.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Lines.

    "They will not frame their doings to turn unto their God.
    Hosea, 5:4."


I would frame all my doings to please thee, my God!
'Tis from thee all my mercies proceed;
I would frame all my doings to serve thee, my God!
For thy service is freedom indeed.

I would frame all my doings to please thee, my God!
But how feeble my best efforts are;
Ah! how needful for me is thy chastening rod,
And a proof of thy fatherly care.

I would frame all my doings to serve thee, my God!
But my goodness extends not to thee;
And when on well doing I'm fully intent,
Alas! evil is present with me.

My Creator, Preserver, Redeemer and King,
I would tax all my powers to obey;
But to Him let me look for the help that I need,
Who is the life, the ligh...

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

A Word To The Calvinists

You may rejoice to think yourselves secure,
You may be grateful for the gift divine,
That grace unsought which made your black hearts pure
And fits your earthborn souls in Heaven to shine.

But is it sweet to look around and view
Thousands excluded from that happiness,
Which they deserve at least as much as you,
Their faults not greater nor their virtues less?

And wherefore should you love your God the more
Because to you alone his smiles are given,
Because He chose to pass the many o'er
And only bring the favoured few to Heaven?

And wherefore should your hearts more grateful prove
Because for all the Saviour did not die?
Is yours the God of justice and of love
And are your bosoms warm with charity?

Say does your heart expand to all mank...

Anne Bronte

My Times Are In Thy Hand.

My times are in thy hand, my God!
And I rejoice that they are so;
My times are in thy hand, my God,
Whether it be for weal or woe.

My times are in thy hand, I know;
And if I'm washed in Jesus' blood,
Though dark my pathway here below,
It leads directly up to God.

Since all thy children chastening need,
And all so called must feel the rod,
Why for exemption should I plead,
For am I not thy child, my God?

Ah why go mourning all the day,
Or why should I from trials shrink?
Though much of sorrow's in my cup,
The cup that I am called to drink.

'Tis needful medicine I know,
By the most skilful hand prepared,
Strictly proportioned to my wants,
There's not a drop that can be spared.

Then why desponding, o...

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

The Diary Of An Old Soul. - May.

        1.

        WHAT though my words glance sideways from the thing
        Which I would utter in thine ear, my sire!
        Truth in the inward parts thou dost desire--
        Wise hunger, not a fitness fine of speech:
        The little child that clamouring fails to reach
        With upstretched hand the fringe of her attire,
        Yet meets the mother's hand down hurrying.

        2.

        Even when their foolish words they turned on him,
        He did not his disciples send away;
        He knew their hearts were foolish, eyes were dim,
        And therefore by his side needs must they stay.
        Thou will not, Lord, send me away from thee.
        When I am foolish, make thy cock crow grim;
        If that is not enough, turn,...

George MacDonald

Confidence

Oppressed with sin and woe,
A burdened heart I bear,
Opposed by many a mighty foe;
But I will not despair.

With this polluted heart,
I dare to come to Thee,
Holy and mighty as Thou art,
For Thou wilt pardon me.

I feel that I am weak,
And prone to every sin;
But Thou who giv'st to those who seek,
Wilt give me strength within.

Far as this earth may be
From yonder starry skies;
Remoter still am I from Thee:
Yet Thou wilt not despise.

I need not fear my foes,
I deed not yield to care;
I need not sink beneath my woes,
For Thou wilt answer prayer.

In my Redeemer's name,
I give myself to Thee;
And, all unworthy as I am,
My God will cherish me.

Anne Bronte

The Diary Of An Old Soul. - August.

        1.

        SO shall abundant entrance me be given
        Into the truth, my life's inheritance.
        Lo! as the sun shoots straight from out his tomb,
        God-floated, casting round a lordly glance
        Into the corners of his endless room,
        So, through the rent which thou, O Christ, hast riven,
        I enter liberty's divine expanse.

        2.

        It will be so--ah, so it is not now!
        Who seeks thee for a little lazy peace,
        Then, like a man all weary of the plough,
        That leaves it standing in the furrow's crease,
        Turns from thy presence for a foolish while,
        Till comes again the rasp of unrest's file,
        From liberty is distant many a mile.

        3.

George MacDonald