By a simple word he spoke,
"Thy sins are done away."

LVII. HATRED OF SIN.

HOLY Lord God! I love thy truth,
Nor dare thy least commandment slight;
Yet pierced by sin, the serpent's tooth,
I mourn the anguish of the bite.

But though the poison lurks within,
Hope bids me still with patience wait;
Till death shall set me free from sin,
Free from the only thing I hate.

Had I a throne above the rest,

Where angels and archangels dweli,

One sin, unslain, within my breast,

Would make that heaven as dark as hell.

The prisoner sent to breathe fresh air,
And blessed with liberty again,

Would mourn were he condemned to wear

One link of all his former chain.

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.

LVIII. 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,
No conflict yet his faith employs,

Nor has he learnt to whom he owes
The strength and peace his soul enjoys.

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 armed his numerous host,
The Lord soon made his numbers less;
And said, "Lest Israel vainly boast,
'My arm procured me this success.'
Thus will he bring our spirits down,

And draw our ebbing comforts low,

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.

That saved by grace, but not our own,
We may not claim the praise we owe.

LIX-TRUE AND FALSE COMFORTS.

O GOD, whose favourable eye
The sin-sick soul revives,
Holy and heavenly is the joy
Thy shining presence gives.

Not such as hypocrites suppose,
Who with a graceless heart
Taste not of thee, but drink a dose
Prepared by Satan's art.

Intoxicating joys are theirs,

Who while they boast their light,
And seem to soar above the stars,
Are plunging into night.

Lulled in a soft and fatal sleep,
They sin and yet rejoice;
Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep,
Would they not hear his voice?

Be mine the comforts that reclaim
The soul from Satan's power;
That make me blush for what I am,
And hate my sin the more.

'Tis joy enough, my All in All,
At thy dear feet to lie;

Thou wilt not let me lower fall,
And none can higher fly.

LX. A LIVING AND A DEAD FAITH.

THE Lord receives his highest praise

From humble minds and hearts sincere ;
While all the loud professor says
Offends the righteous Judge's ear.

To walk as children of the day,
To mark the precepts' holy light,
To wage the warfare, watch, and pray,
Show who are pleasing in his sight.
Not words alone it cost the Lord,
To purchase pardon for his own;
Nor will a soul by grace restored
Return the Saviour words alone.

With golden bells, the priestly vest,

And rich pomegranates bordered round,

The need of holiness expressed,

And called for fruit as well as sound.
Easy indeed it were to reach

A mansion in the courts above,
If swelling words and fluent speech
Might serve instead of faith and love.
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!

LXI.-ABUSE OF THE GOSPEL.

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, 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.

LXII. 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,

One only leads to joys on high;