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Satan with instruments of his
May rage, yet dread no evil;
So far as he a creature is,
Thy Husband made the devil.
His black temptations may afflict,
His fiery darts annoy;

But all his works, and hellish trick,
Thy Husband will destroy.

Let armies strong of earthly gods,
Combine with hellish ghosts,
They live or languish, at his nods;
Thy Husband's Lord of hosts.

What can thee hurt? whom dost thou fear?

All things are at his call.

Thy Maker is thy Husband dear,

Thy Husband all in all.

What dost thou seek? what dost thou want?

He'll thy desires fulfil;

He gave himself, what won't he grant ?

Thy Husband's at thy will.

The more thou dost of him desire,
The more he loves to give :
High let thy mounting aims aspire,
Thy Husband gives thee leave.

The less thou seek'st, the less thou dost

His bounty set on high:

But higbest seekers here do most

Thy Husband glorify.

Would'st thou have grace? Well; but 'tis meet He should more glory gain.

Would'st thou have Father, Son, and Sp'rit? Thy Husband says, Amen.

He'll kindly act the lib'ral God,
Divising lib'ral things;

With royal gifts his subjects loads :
Thy Husband's King of king.

No earthly monarchs have such store
As thou hast ev'n in hand;
But O how infinitely more

Thy Husband gives on band!

Thou hast indeed the better part,
The part will fail thee never :

T'hy Husband's hand, thy Husband's heart,
Thy Husband's all for ever.

The End of the Poem upon Is. liv. 5.

PART I I I.

THE BELIEVER'S RIDDLE;

OR

THE MYSTERY OF FAITH.

PREFACE,

Shewing the Use and Design of the Riddle.

EADER, the following enigmatic Song Does not to wisest nat'ralists belong : Their wisdom is but folly on this head; They here may ruminate, but cannot read.

For though they glance the words, the meaning chokes ;
They read the lines, but not the paradox.

The subject will, howe'er the phrase be blunt,
Their most acute intelligence surmount,

If with their natʼral and acquired sight

They share not divine evangelic light.

Great wits may rouse their fancies, rack their brains, And after all their labour lose their pains:

Their wisest comments were but witless chat,
Unapt to frame an explication pat.
No unregen'rate mortal's best engines
Can right unriddle these few ragged lines ;
Nor any proper notions thereof reach,
Though sublimated to the highest stretch.
Masters of reason, plodding men of sense,
Who scorn to mortify their vain pretence,

In this mysterious deep might plod their fill;
It overtops the top of all their skill.

The more they vainly huff, and scorn to read,
The more it does their foolish wit exceed.
Those sinners that are sanctifi'd in part,
May read this riddle truly in their heart.
Yea, weakest saints may feel its truest sense,
Both in their sad and sweet experience.
Don't overlook it with a rambling view,
And rash suppose it neither good nor true.
Let heav'n's pure oracles the truth decide;
Renounce it, if it can't that test abide.
Noble Bereans soon the test may hit,
Who sound the divine depth of sacred writ,
Not by what airy carnal reason saith,
But by the golden line of heav'n-spun faith.

Let not the naughty phrase make you disprove The weighty matter which deserves your love. High strains would spoil the riddle's grand intent, To teach the weakest, the most illit'rate saint, That Mahanaim is his proper name;

In whom two struggling hosts make bloody game.
That such may know, whose knowledge is but rude,
How good consists with ill, and ill with good.
That saints be neither at their worst nor best,
Too much exalted, or too much deprest.
This paradox is fitted to disclose

The skill of Zion's friends above her foes;
To difference, by light that heav'n transmits,
Some happy fools from miserable wits.
And thus (if bliss'd) it may in some degree
Make fools their wit, and wits their folly see.
Slight not the riddle then like jargon vile,
Because not garnish'd with a pompous style.
Could th' author act the lofty poet's part,
Who make their sonnets soar on wings of art,

He on this theme had blush'd to use his skill,
And either clipt his wings, or broke his quill.

Why, this enigma climbs such divine heights
As scorn to be adorn'd with human flights.
These gaudy strains would lovely truth disgrace,
As purest paint deforms a comely face.
Heav'n's mysteries are 'bove art's ornament,
Immensely brighter than its brightest paint.
No tow'ring lit'rature could e'er outwit
The plainest diction fetch'd from sacred writ;
By which mere blazing rhet'ric is outdone,
As twinkling stars are by the radiant sun.
The soaring orators, who can with ease
Strain the quaintessence of hyperboles,
And clothe the barest theme with purest dress,
Might here expatiate much, yet say the less,
If wi' th' majestical simplicity

Of scripture-orat'ry they disagree.

These lines pretend not to affect the sky, Content among in-glorious shades to lie,

Provided sacred truth be fitly clad,

Or glorious shine ev'n through the dusky shade.
Mark then, though you should miss the gilded strain,
If they a store of golden truth contain:

Nor under-rate a jewel rare and prime,
Though wrapt up in the rags of homely rhime.
Though haughty Deists hardly stoop to say,
That nature's night has need of scripture day;
Yet gospel-light alone will clearly shew
How ev'ry sentence here is just and true,
Expel the shades that may the mind involve,
And soon the seeming contradiction solve.
All fatal errors in the world proceed
From want of skill such mysteries to read.
Vain men the double branch of truth divide,
Hold by the one, and slight the other side.

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