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, Guilt will be hid no more, The crimes that blot my conscience o'er My sorrows, like a flood, Into thy bosom, O my God! This impious heart of mine How often have I stood The calls, the tenders of a God, He offers all his grace, And all his Heaven to me; Offers! but 'tis to senseless brass, That cannot feel nor see. 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, To mount me upwards to a crown, Lord, I am asham❜d to say 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 And yet, and yet (0 matchless grace) The thunder silent lies. O shall I never feel The meltings of thy love? Now for one powerful glance, O'ercome by dying love I fall, And throw my flesh, my soul, my all, 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 :' YOUNG MEN AND MAIDENS, OLD MEN AND BABES, PRAISE YE THE LORD. Psalm cxlviii. 12. SONS of Adam, bold and young, And wields your active limbs, with hardy sinews [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 melts our reason down to sense? To please that Everlasting Fair: [hours; His beauties are the sun, and but the shade is yours. Infants, whose different destinies Are wove with threads of different size; Who wrought your wondrous frame: Ye heads of venerable age, Just marching off the mortal stage; As long as e'er the glass of life would run; Through flowery fields a fair long summer's day; FLYING FOWL, AND CREEPING THINGS, PRAISE YE THE LORD. Psalm exlviii. 10. SWEET flocks, whose soft enamel'd wing Lovely minstrels of the field, Who in leafy shadows sit, And your wondrous structures build, Awake your tuneful voices with the dawning light; |