"There, like streams that feed the garden, For the Lord, your faith rewarding, "Ye no more your suns descending, God shall rise, and shining o'er you, XI. JEHOVAH OUR RIGHTEOUSNESS. Jer. xxiii. 6. My God, how perfect are thy ways! But mine polluted are; Sin twines itself about my praise, And slides into my prayer. When I would speak what thou hast done To save me from my sin, I cannot make thy mercies known, But self-applause creeps in. Divine desire, that holy flame This heart, a fountain of vile thoughts, While self upon the surface floats, Let others in the gaudy dress Of fancied merit shine, The Lord shall be my righteousness, The Lord for ever mine. XII. EPHRAIM REPENTING. Jer. xxxi. 18—20. My God, till I received thy stroke, How like a beast was I! So unaccustom'd to the yoke, So backward to comply. With grief my just reproach I bear, Thy merciful restraint I scorn'd, "Is Ephraim banish'd from my thoughts, Or vile in my esteem? No," saith the Lord, " with all his faults, I still remember him. "Is he a dear and pleasant child? "My sharp rebuke has laid him low, My pity kindles at his woe, He shall not seek in vain." XIII. THE COVENANT. Ezek. xxxvi. 25—28. THE Lord proclaims his grace abroad! My grace, a flowing stream, proceeds My truth the great design ensures, 1 Yet not unsought, or unimplored, From the first breath of life divine, The gracious work shall all be mine, XIV. JEHOVAH-SHAMMAH. Ezek. xlviii. 35. As birds their infant brood protect,2 And spread their wings to shelter them, Thus saith the Lord to his elect, "So will I guard Jerusalem." And what then is Jerusalem, Jehovah founded it in blood, The blood of his incarnate Son; There, though besieged on every side, 1 Verse 37. 2 Isaiah xxxi. 5. Let earth repent, and hell despair, Her name is call'd, The Lord is there, And who has power to drive him thence? XV. PRAISE FOR THE FOUNTAIN OPENED. Zec. xiii. 1. THERE is a fountain fill'd with blood The dying thief rejoiced to see Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream And shall be till I die. Then in a nobler, sweeter song, I'll sing thy power to save; When this poor lisping stammering tongue Lies silent in the grave. |