Had I a throne above the rest, Where angels and archangels dwell, One sin, unslain, within my breast, Would make that heaven as dark as hell. The prisoner sent to breathe fresh air, Would mourn, were he condemn'd to wear But oh! no foe invades the bliss, When glory crowns the Christian's head; One view of Jesus as he is Will strike all sin for ever dead. LVII. THE NEW CONVERT. THE new-born child of gospel grace, Like some fair tree when summer's nigh, Beneath Emmanuel's shining face Lifts up his blooming branch on high. No fears he feels, he sees no foes, Nor has he learnt to whom he owes But sin soon darts its cruel sting, And comforts sinking day by day, What seemed his own, a self-fed spring, Proves but a brook that glides away. When Gideon arm'd his numerous host, The Lord soon made his numbers less; And said, "Lest Israel vainly boast,1 1 'My arm procured me this success."" Thus will he bring our spirits down, And draw our ebbing comforts low, That saved by grace, but not our own, We may not claim the praise we owe. LVIII. TRUE AND FALSE COMFORTS. O GOD, whose favourable eye Not such as hypocrites suppose, Intoxicating joys are theirs, Who, while they boast their light, And seem to soar above the stars, Are plunging into night. Lull'd in a soft and fatal sleep, They sin and yet rejoice; Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep, 1 Judges vii. 2. Be mine the comforts that reclaim 'Tis joy enough, my All in All, LIX. A LIVING AND A DEAD FAITH. THE Lord receives his highest praise To walk as children of the day, Not words alone it cost the Lord, With golden bells, the priestly vest, And rich pomegranates border'd round,1 The need of holiness express'd, And call'd for fruit as well as sound. 1 Exod. xxviii. 33. Easy, indeed, it were to reach A mansion in the courts above, But none shall gain the blissful place, LX. ABUSE OF THE GOSPEL. Too many, Lord, abuse thy grace And while they boast they see thy face, Thy book displays a gracious light That can the blind restore; The pardon such presume upon, And when they plead it at thy throne, Was it for this, ye lawless tribe, Ah, Lord, we know thy chosen few But these, the wretched husks they chew The liberty our hearts implore But still to wait at wisdom's door, LXI. THE NARROW WAY. 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, No more I ask or hope to find 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. |