How shall a pardon'd rebel show I hate the sins that cost thy blood. I hold no more commerce with hell, A PREPARATORY THOUGHT FOR THE LORD'S SUPPER. In imitation of Isaiah, lxiii. 1, 2, 3. WHAT heavenly man, or lovely God, The Lord! the Saviour! yes 'tis he, Lo, he reveals his shining breast; Sweet fruit of the sharp pangs he bore; Whence flow these favours so divine? This heav'nly flesh, this sacred food? "Twas his own love that made him bleed, Then let us taste the Saviour's love, CONVERSE WITH CHRIST. I'm tir'd with visits, modes, and forms, Their vain amours and empty stuff: But I can ne'er enjoy enough Of thy blest company, my Lord, thou life of all my joys. When he begins to tell his love, In midnight shades, on frosty ground, I could attend the pleasing sound, Nor should I feel December cold, nor think the darkness long. There, while I hear my Saviour God Count o'er the sins (a heavy load) He bore upon the tree, Inward I blush with secret shame, And weep and love and bless the name That knew not guilt nor grief his own, but bare it all for me. Next he describes the thorns he wore, Till I am drown'd in tears: Yet with the sympathetic smart There's a strange joy beats round my heart! The cursed tree has blessings in't my sweetest balm it bears, I hear the glorious sufferer tell, "How has the Serpent lost his sting, and where's thy victory, Death?" But when he shows his hands and heart, He sets my soul on fire: Not the beloved John could rest With more delight upon that breast, Nor Thomas pry into those wounds with more intense de sire. Kindly he opens me his ear, And bids me pour my sorrows there, And tell him all my pains: Thus while I ease my burden'd heart: In every woe he hears a part, His arms embrace me, and his hand my drooping head sus tains. Fly from my thoughts, all human things, My soul disdains that little snare, The tangles of Amira's hair :* Thine arms, my God, are sweeter bands, nor can my heart remove. GRACE SHINING, AND NATURE FAINTING. Solomon's Song, i. 3, ii. 5, and vi. 5. TELL me, fairest of thy kind, Say, thou dear Sovereign of my breast, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, LYCIDAS. O my great Redeemer, say, Shall I turn my feet astray; Will Jesus bear to see me rove, To see me seek another love? I cannot bear the thought, that he Should bleed and die, Should love a wretch so vile as me His eyes are glory mix'd with grace; In his delightful awful face And feel his warmer smiles. Where shall I rest this drooping head? I love, I love the sun, and yet I want the shade. My sinking spirits feebly strive To endure the ecstasy; Beneath these rays I cannot live, And yet without them die. None knows the pleasure and the pain. That all my inward powers sustain, But such as feel a Saviour's love, and love the God again. Turn, turn away thine eyes, Ascend the azure hills, and shine Amongst the happy tenants of the skies, They can sustain a vision so divine. |