. I live, I'm strong, and now eternal life Beats quick within my breast; my vigorous mind With vast amaze I see the' unfathom'd thoughts, Of God's own heart, in which he ever rests. Here the beginning and the end of all O that the day, the joyful day, were come, Death, and the Tempter, and the Man of Sin, Now at the bar arraign'd, in judgment cast, Shall vex the saints no more: but perfect love, And loudest praises, perfect joy create, While ever-circling years maintain the blissful state. LOVE ON A CROSS, AND A THRONE. Now let my faith grow strong, and rise, Then mount and see his throne above. See where he languish'd on the cross, If I behold his bleeding heart, There love in floods of sorrow reigns, Or if I climb the' eternal hills Where the dear Conqueror sits enthron'd; Still in his heart compassion dwells, Near the memorials of his wound. 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 Ixiii. 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? '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: [joys! Of thy bless'd company, my Lord, thou life of all my When he begins to tell his love, Through every vein my passions move, In midnight shades, on frosty ground, Nor should I feel December cold, nor think the darkness long. There, while I hear my Saviour-God 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 desire. Kindly he opens me his ear, And bids me pour my sorrows there, In every woe he bears a part, His arms embrace me, and his hand my drooping head sustains. 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. |