In thee, dear Lord, my pensive soul respires,
Thou art the fulness of my choice desires;
Thou art that sacred spring, whose waters burst
In streams to him, that seeks with holy thirst;
Thrice happy man, thrice happy thirst to bring
The fainting soul to so, so sweet a spring;
Thrice happy he, whose well-resolved breast
Expects no other aid, no other rest;
Thrice happy he, whose downy age had been
Reclaim'd by scourges from the prime of sin;
And, early season'd with the taste of truth,
Remembers his Creator in his youth.
THOU great Creator, whose diviner breath
Preserves thy creature, joy'st not in his death,
Look down from thy eternal throne, that art
The only rock of a despairing heart;
Look down from heaven, O thou, whose tender
Once heard the trickling of one single tear.
How art thou now estranged from his cry,
That sends forth rivers from his fruitful eye?
How often hast thou with a gentle arm,
Rais'd me from death, and bid me fear no harm?
What strange disaster caus'd this sudden change?
How wert thou once so near, and now so strange?
IMPETUOUS famine, sister to the sword,
Left hand of death, child of the infernal lord,
Thou torturer of mankind, that with one stroke,
Subject'st the world to thy imperious yoke:
What pleasure tak'st thou in the tedious breath
Of pined mortals, or their ling'ring death?
The sword, thy generous brother's not so cruel,
He kills but once, fights in a noble duel;
But thou (malicious fury) dost extend
Thy spleen to all, whose death can find no end :
Alas! my hapless weal can want no woe,
That feels the rage of sword, and famine too.
NE'ER had the splendour of thy bright renown
Been thus extinguished, Judah, thy fast crown
Had ne'er been spurn'd from thy imperial brow,
Plenty had nurs'd thy soul, thy peaceful plough
Had fill'd thy fruitful quarters with increase,
Hadst thou but known thyself, and loved peace:
But thou hast broke that sacred truth, concluded
Betwixt thy God and thee; vainly deluded
Thyself with thine own strength, with deadly feud
Thy furious priests and prophets have pursu'd
The mourning saints of Sion, and did slay
All such as were more just, more pure than they.
YE drooping sons of Sion, O arise,
And shut the flood-gates of your flowing eyes,
Surcease your sorrows, and your joys attend,
For heaven hath spoke it, and your griefs shall
Believe it, Sion; seek no curious sign,
And wait heaven's pleasure, as heav'n waited thine.
And thou, triumphing Edom, that dost lie
In beds of roses, thou, whose prosperous eye
Did smile to see the gates of Sion fall,
Shalt be subjected to the self-same thrall;
Sion, that weeps, shall smile; and Edom's eye,
That smiles so fast, as fast shall shortly cry.
THOSE Church contemners, that can easily weigh The profit of a sermon with a play;
Whose testy stomachs can digest as well,
A proffer'd injury, as a sermon-bell;
That say unwonted prayers with the like wills,
As queasy patients take their loathed pills;
To what extremity would they be driven,
If God, in judgment, should but give them heav'n!
WHEN thou afflicts me, Lord, if I repine,
I show myself to be my own, not thine.
WHERE shall I find my God? O where, O where,
Shall I direct my steps to find him there?
Shall I make search in swelling bags of coin?
Ah! no; for God and Mammon cannot join.
Do beds of down contain this heavenly stranger?
No, no, he's rather cradled in some manger:
Dwells he in wisdom? is he gone that road?
No, no, man's wisdom's foolishness with God:
Or hath some new plantation yet unknown,
Made him their king, adorn'd him with their
crown?
No, no; the kingdoms of the earth think scorn
To adorn his brows with any crown but thorn.
Where shall I go to trace, where go to wind him?
My Lord is gone; and O! I cannot find him:
I'll ransack the dark dungeons; I'll inquire
Into the furnace, after the seventh fire:
I'll seek in Daniel's den, and in Paul's prison;
I'll search his grave, and see if he be risen:
I'll go to the house of mourning; and I'll call
At every alms-abused hospital:
go and ask the widow that's opprest; The heavy-laden that inquireth rest.
I'll search the corners of all broken hearts;
The wounded conscience, and the soul that smarts;
The contrite spirit fill'd with filial fear—
Ay, there he is; and nowhere else but there:
Spare not to scourge thy pleasure,' O my God,
So I may find thy presence with thy rod.
As much as thou pleasest.
SINS, in respect of man, all mortal be;
All venial, Jesu, in respect of Thee.
AND dars't thou venture still to live in sin,
And crucify thy dying Lord again?
Were not his pangs sufficient? Must he bleed
Yet more? O, must our sinful pleasures feed
Upon his torments, and augment the story
Of the sad passion of the Lord of glory!
Is there no pity? Is there no remorse
In human breasts? Is there a firm divorce
Betwixt all mercy and the hearts of men?
Parted for ever-ne'er to meet again?
No mercy bides with us: 'tis thou alone,
Hast it, sweet Jesu, for us, that have none
For thee: thou hast forestall'd our markets so,
That all's above, and we have none below:
Nay, blessed Lord, we have not wherewithal
To serve our shiftless selves; unless we call
To thee, that art our Saviour, and hast power
To give, and whom we crucify each hour:
We are cruel, Lord, to thee, and ourselves too;
Jesu forgive us; we know not what we do.
No marvel, thou great monarch didst complain, And weep there were no other worlds to gain,
|