« PreviousContinue »
Which makes the weary members blefs'd,
With sweet refreshment in their reft;
Or whether fpirits in the brain
Difpel their foft embrace again;
And on my watchful bed I stay,
Forfook by fleep, and waiting day;
Be God for ever in my view,
And never he forfake me too;
But still as day concludes in night,
To break again with new-born light;
His wondrous bounty let me find,
With still a more enlighten'd mind;
When grace and love in one agree,
Grace from God, and love from me;
Grace that will from heaven.infpire,
Love that feals it in defire :
Grace and love that mingle beams,
And fill me with encreasing flames.
Thou that haft thy palace far
Above the moon and every star,
Thou that fitteft on a throne
To which the night was never known,
Regard my voice and make me blefs'd,
By kindly granting its requeft.
If thoughts on thee my foul employ,
My darkness will afford me joy,
Till thou fhalt call, and I fhall foar,
And part with darkness evermore.
THE SOUL IN SORROW.
WITH kind compaffion hear my cry,
O, Jefu, Lord of Life, on high!
As when the fummer's feafons beat,
With fcorching flame and parching heat ::
The trees are burnt, the flowers fade,
And thirsty gaps in earth are made.
My thoughts of comfort languifh fo,
And fo my foul is broke by woe.
Then on thy fervant's drooping head
Thy dews of bleffing fweetly fhed;
Let thofe a quick refreshment give,
And raise my mind, and bid me live.
My fears of danger, while I breathe,
My dread of endless hell beneath:
My fenfe of forrow for my fin,
To fpringing comfort, change within;
Change all my fad complaints for eafe,
To chearful notes of endlefs praife;
Nor let a tear mine eyes employ,
But fuch as owe their birth to joy:
Joy tranfporting, fweet, and ftrong,
Fit to fill and raise my fong;
Joy that shall refounded be,
While days and nights fucceed for me:
Be not as a Judge fevere,
For fo thy prefence who may bear?
On all my words and actions look,
(I know they're written in thy book ;)
But then regard my mournful cry,
And look with Mercy's gracious eye;
What needs my blood, fince thine will do,
pay the debt to Justice due ?
O, tender Mercy's art divine!
Thy forrow proves the cure of mine!
Thy dropping wounds, thy woeful finart,.
Allay the bleedings of my heart:
Thy death, in death's extreme of pain,
Reftores my foul to life again.
Guide me then, for here I burn,
To make my Saviour fome return.
I'll rife (if that will please him, ftill,
And fure I 've heard him own it will);
I'll trace his fteps, and bear my cross,
Defpifing every grief and lofs;
Since he, defpifing pain and shame,
Firft took up his, and did the fame.
OW blefs'd the man, how fully fo,
As far as man is blefs'd below,
Who, taking up his crofs, effays
To follow Jefus all his days;.
With refolution to obey,
And fteps enlarging in his way.
The Father of the faints above
Adopts him with a father's love,
And makes his bofom throughly shine
With wondrous ftores of grace divine ;
Sweet grace divine, the pledge of joy,
That will his foul above employ;
Full joy, that, when his time is done,
Becomes his portion as a fon.
Ah me! the fweet infus'd defires,
The fervid wishes, holy fires,
Which thus a melted heart refine,
Such are his, and fuch be mine.
From hence defpifing all befides
That earth reveals, or ocean hides;
All that men in either prize,
On God alone he fets his eyes.
From hence his hope is on the wings,
His health renews, his fafety fprings,
His glory blazes up below,
And all the ftreams of comfort flow..
He calls his Saviour King above,
Lord of mercy, Lord of love;
And finds a kingly care defend,
And mercy fmile, and love defcend,
To chear, to guide him in the ways
Of this vain world's deceitful maze :
And though the wicked earth display,
Its terrors in their fierce array;
Or gape fo wide that horror fhows
Its hell replete with enless woes ;
Such fuccour keeps him clear of ill,
Still firm to good, and dauntless still.
So, fix'd by Providence's hands,
A rock amidst an ocean stands;
So bears without a trembling dread,
The tempeft beating round its head;
And with its fide repels the wave,
Whofe hollow feems a coming grave:
The skies, the deeps, are heard to roar ;
The rock ftands fettled as before.
I, all with whom he has to do,
Admire the life which bleffes you,
That feeds a foe, that aids a friend,
Without a bye defigning end;
Its knowing real intereft lies
On the bright fide of yonder skies,
Where, having made a title fair,
It mounts, and leaves the world to cares
While he that feeks for pleasing days,
In earthly joys and evil ways;
Is but the fool of toil or fame,
(Though happy be the spacious name)
And made by wealth, which makes him great,
A more confpicuous wretch of state.