But none shall gain the blissful place,
Or God's unclouded glory see,
Who talks of free and sovereign grace,
Unless that grace has made him free!
Too many, Lord, abuse thy grace
In this licentious day,
And, while they boast they see thy face,
They turn their own away.
Thy book displays a gracious light
That can the blind restore;
But these are dazzled by the sight,
And blinded still the more.
The pardon such presume upon
They do not beg, but steal;
And when they plead it at thy throne,
Oh! where's the Spirit's seal?
Was it for this, ye lawless tribe,
The dear Redeemer bled?
Is this the grace the saints imbibe
From Christ the living head?
Ah, Lord, we know thy chosen few
Are fed with heavenly fare;
But these,—the wretched husks they chew
Proclaim them what they are.
The liberty our hearts implore
Is not to live in sin;
But still to wait at Wisdom's door,
Till Mercy calls us in.
WHAT thousands never knew the road!
What thousands hate it when 'tis known!
None but the chosen tribes of God
Will seek or choose it for their own.
A thousand ways in ruin end,
One only leads to joys on high;
By that my willing steps ascend,
Pleased with a journey to the sky.
No more I ask or hope to find
Delight or happiness below;
Sorrow may well possess the mind
That feeds where thorns and thistles grow.
The joy that fades is not for me,
I seek immortal joys above ;
There glory without end shall be
The bright reward of faith and love.
Cleave to the world, ye sordid worms,
Contented lick your native dust!
But God shall fight with all his storms
Against the idol of your trust.
To keep the lamp alive
With oil we fill the bowl;
'Tis water makes the willow thrive,
And grace that feeds the soul.
The Lord's unsparing hand
Supplies the living stream;
It is not at our own command,
But still derived from him.
Beware of Peter's word,
Nor confidently say,
"I never will deny thee, Lord,'
But,—“ Grant I never may.
Man's wisdom is to seek
His strength in God alone;
And even an angel would be weak
Who trusted in his own.
Retreat beneath his wings,
And in his grace confide!
This more exalts the King of kings
Than all your works beside.
In Jesus is our store,
Grace issues from his throne; Whoever says, "I want no more,” Confesses he has none.
LXIV. NOT OF WORKS
GRACE, triumphant in the throne,
Scorns a rival, reigns alone;
Come and bow beneath her sway,
Cast your idol works away!
Works of man, when made his plea,
Never shall accepted be;
Fruits of pride (vain-glorious worm!)
Are the best he can perform.
Self, the god his soul adores,
Influences all his powers;
Jesus is a slighted name,
Self-advancement all his aim :
But when God the Judge shall come
To pronounce the final doom,
Then for rocks and hills to hide
All his works and all his pride!
Still the boasting heart replies,
"What! the worthy and the wise,
Friends to temperance and peace,
Have not these a righteousness?"
Banish every vain pretence
Built on human excellence;
Perish everything in man,
But the grace that never can.
LXV. PRAISE FOR FAITH
Of all the gifts thine hand bestows,
Thou giver of all good!
Not heaven itself a richer knows
Than my Redeemer's blood.
Faith, too, the blood-receiving grace,
From the same hand we gain ; Else, sweetly as it suits our case, That gift had been in vain.
Till thou thy teaching power apply,
Our hearts refuse to see,
And, weak as a distempered eye,
Shut out the view of thee.
Blind to the merits of thy Son,
What misery we endure !
Yet fly that hand from which alone
We could expect a cure.
We praise thee, and would praise thee more,
To thee our all we owe;
The precious Saviour, and the power,
That makes him precious too.
LXVI. GRACE AND PROVIDENCE
ALMIGHTY King! whose wondrous hand
Supports the weight of sea and land ;
Whose grace is such a boundless store,
No heart shall break that sighs for more;
Thy providence supplies my food,
And 'tis thy blessing makes it good;
My soul is nourished by thy word :
Let soul and body praise the Lord!
My streams of outward comfort came
From him who built this earthly frame;
Whate'er I want his bounty gives,
By whom my soul for ever lives.
Either his hand preserves from pain,
Or, if I feel it, heals again;
From Satan's malice shields my breast,
Or overrules it for the best.
Forgive the song that falls so low
Beneath the gratitude I owe !
It means thy praise, however poor,
An angel's song can do no more.
LXVII. I WILL PRAISE THE LORD AT ALL TIMES
WINTER has a joy for me,
While the Saviour's charms I read,
Lowly, meek, from blemish free,
In the snowdrop's pensive head,
Spring returns, and brings along
Life-invigorating suns:
Hark! the turtle's plaintive song
Seems to speak his dying groans!
Summer has a thousand charms,
All expressive of his worth;
'Tis his sun that lights and warms,
His the air that cools the earth.
What! has Autumn left to say
Nothing of a Saviour's grace?
Yes, the beams of milder day
Tell me of his smiling face.
Light appears with early dawn,
While the sun makes haste to rise;
See his bleeding beauties drawn
On the blushes of the skies.
Evening with a silent pace,
Slowly moving in the west,
Shows an emblem of his grace,
Points to an eternal rest.
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