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In vain our haughty reason swells,

For nothing's found in thee But boundless unconceivables,

And vast eternity,

CONFESSION AND PARDON.

Alas, my aching heart!

Here the keen torment lies,
It racks my waking hours with smart,

And frights my slumbering eyes.

Guilt will be hid no more,

My griefs take vent apace,
The crimes that blot my conscience o'er

Flush crimson in my face.

My sorrows, like a flood,

Impatient of restraint, Into thy bosom, O my God!

Pour out a long complaint.

This impious heart of mine

Could once defy the Lord,
Could rush with violence on to sin,

In presence of thy sword.

How often have I stood

A rebel to the skies,
The calls, the tenders of a God,

And mercy's loudest cries !

He offers all his grace,

And all his Heaven to me; Offers! but 'tis to senseless brass,

That cannot feel nor see.

Jesus the Saviour stands

To court me from above, And looks and spreads his wounded hands,

And shows the prints of love.

But I, a stupid fool,

How long have I withstood
The blessings purchas'd with his soul,

And paid for all in blood !

The heavenly Dove came down,

And tender'd me his wings
To mount me upwards to a crown,

And bright immortal things.

Lord, I am asham'd to say

That I refus'd thy Dove,
And sent thy Spirit griev'd away,

To his own realms of love.

Not all thine heavenly charms,

Nor terrors of thy hand,
Could force me to lay down my arms.

And bow to thy command.

Lord, 'tis against thy face
My sins like arrows rise,
And yet, and yet (O matchless grace)

The thunder silent lies.

O shall I never feel

The meltings of thy love?
Am I of such hell-harden'd steel

That mercy cannot move?

Now for one powerful glance,

Dear Saviour, from thy face!
This rebel-heart no more withstands,

But sinks beneath thy grace.

O'ercome by dying love I fall,

Here at thy cross I lie ;
And throw my flesh, my soul, my all,

And weep, and love, and die.

Rise,' says the Prince of Mercy, rise, (With joy and pity in his eyes :) Rise, and behold my wounded veins, Here flows the blood to wash thy stains.

See my great Father reconcil'd :' He said. And lo, the Father smild, The joyful cherubs clap'd their wings, And sounded grace on all their strings.

YOUNG MEN AND MAIDENS, OLD MEN

AND BABES,

PRAISE YE THE LORD.

Psalm cxlviii. 12.

Sons of Adam, bold and young,
In the wild mazes of whose veins

A flood of fiery vigour reigns,
And wields your active limbs, with hardy sinews

Fall prostrate at the eternal throne [strung;

Whence your precarious powers depend; Nor swell as if your lives were all your own,

But choose your Maker for your friend ;

His favour is your life, his arm is your support, His hand can stretch your days, or cut your

minutes short.

Virgins, who roll your

artful

eye,
And shoot delicious danger thence;
Swift the lovely lightning flies,
And melts our reason down to sense?

Boast not of those withering charms
That must yield their youthful grace

To age and wrinkles, earth and worms; But love the Author of your smiling face; That heavenly Bridegroom claims your blooming O make it your perpetual care

[hours; To please that Everlasting Fair: His beauties are the sun, and but the shade is yours.

Infants, whose different destinies
Are wove with threads of different size;
But from the same spring-tide of tears,

Commence your hopes, and joys, and fears, (A tedious train;) and date your following years : Break your first silence in his praise

Who wrought your wondrous frame: With sounds of tenderest accent raise

Your honours to his name ; And consecrate your early days

To know the Power Supreme.

Ye heads of venerable age,
Just marching off the mortal stage ;

Fathers, whose vital threads are spun
As long as e'er the glass of life would run ;

Adore the hand that led your way
Through flowery fields a fair long summer's day :
Gasp out your soul in praises to the Sovereign Pow'r
That set your west so distant from your dawning

hour.

FLYING FOWL, AND CREEPING THINGS,

PRAISE YE THE LORD.

Psalm cxlviii. 10.

SWEET flocks, whose soft enameld wing
Swift and gently cleaves the sky;
Whose charming notes address the Spring

With an artless harmony :
Lovely minstrels of the field,
Who in leafy shadows sit,

And your wondrous structures build,
Awake your tuneful voices with the dawning light;

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