Thy griefs and thy complaints were not amiss:He's grief enough, that finds no world but this.
HE that shall shed, with a presumptous hand,
The blood of man, must by thy just command
Be put to death; the murderer must die;
Thy law denies him refuge where to fly:
Great God, our hands have slain a man; nay,
further,
They have committed a presumptuous murder
Upon a guiltless man; nay, what is worse,
They have betrayed our brother to the curse
Of a reproachful death; nay, what exceeds,
It is our Lord, our dying Saviour bleeds;
Nay, more, it is thy Son, thy only Son:
All this have we, all this our hands have done.
On what dear objects shall we turn our eye?
Look to the law: O! by the law we die.
Is there no refuge, Lord? no place that shall
Secure our souls from death?
What shall poor mortals do?
Ah, none at all?
Thy laws are just,
And most irrevocable: shall we trust
Or fly to our own merits, and be freed
By our good works? Ay, there were help indeed! Is there no city for a soul to fly
And save itself? Must we resolve to die?
O infinite! O not to be exprest!
Nay, not to be conceived by the breast
Of men or angels! O transcendent love!
Incomprehensible! as far above
The reach of man, as man's deserts are under
The sacred benefit of so blest a wonder!
The very
blood our sinful hands have shed,
Cries loud for mercy, and those wounds do plead
For those that made them: he, that pleads, for-
And is both God and man; both dead and lives.
He whom we murdered is become our guardian;
He's man to suffer, and he's God to pardon :
He's our protection here; our refuge city,
Whose living springs run piety and pity.
Go then, my soul, and pass the common bounds
Of passion, go, and kneel before his wounds;
Go, touch them with thy lips; thou need'st not
fear-
They will not bleed afresh, though thou be there :
But if they do, that very blood thou spilt,
Believe it, will plead thy pardon, not thy guilt.
LORD, I'm in debt, and have not wherewithal
Το pay my score is great, my wealth but small.
My house is poorly furnished, and my food
Is slender, I have nothing that is good:
Lord, if my wasted fortunes prove no better,
My debt is ev'n as desperate as the debtor:
All the relief thy servant this long while
Hath had, is but a little cruse of oil:
There's none will give of alms: I neither get
Enough to satisfy my wants nor debt.
Lord, if thou please to show the self-same art
Upon the slender vessel of my heart,
The prophet did upon the widow's cruse,
I shall have oil to sell, have oil to use;
So shall my debt be paid, and I go free:
No debt is desperate in respect of thee.
I FEAR'D the world and I were too acquainted;
I hope my fears are like her joys, but painted:
Had I not been a stranger, as I past,
Her bawling curs had never bark ́d so fast.
Two potent enemies attend on man,
One's fat and plump, the other lean and wan
The one fawns and smiles, the other weeps as fast;
The first Presumption is, Despair the last :
That feeds upon the bounty of full treasure,
Brings jolly news of peace, and lasting pleasure;
This feeds on want, unapt to entertain
God's blessings; finds them ever in the wane.
Their maxims disagree; but their conclusion
Is the self-same; both jump in man's confusion.
Lord, keep me from the first, or else I shall
Soar up and melt my waxen wings and fall:
Lord, keep the second from me; lest 1 then
Sink down so low, I never rise again :
Teach me to know myself, and what I am,
And my presumption will be turned to shame:
Give me true faith to know thy dying Son,
What ground has then despair to work upon?
To avoid my shipwreck upon either shelf,
O, teach me, Lord, to know my God-myself.
ABEL was silent, but his blood was strong,
Each drop of guiltless blood commands a tongue,
A tongue that cries. 'Tis not a tongue, implores
For gentle audience; 'tis a tongue that roars
For hideous vengeance; 'tis a tongue that's bold
And full of courage, and that cannot hold:
O, what a noise my blessed Saviour's blood
Makes now in heaven! how strong it cries! how
loud!
But not for vengeance: from his side has sprung
A world of drops; from every drop, a tongue.
THE Soul is like a virgin, for whose love
Two jealous suitors strive; both daily move
For nuptial favour; both, with lover's art,
Plead for the conquest of the virgin's heart.
The first, approaching, knocked, and knocked
The door being opened, at his entering in,
He blush'd; and (as young bashful lovers use)
Is more than half discouraged, ere he sues:
At length, that love that taught him what to fear,
Gave resolution to present her ear
With what he hop'd, and in a lover's fashion,
He oft repeats the story of his passion.
He vows his faith, and the sincere perfection
Of undissembled and entire affection:
He pleads for equal mercy from her eye;
And must have love, or else, for love, must die:
His present means were short, he made profession
Of a fair jointure, though but small possession:
And in a word, to make his passion good,
He offers to deserve her with his blood.
The other boldly enters; with the strong
And sweet-lip'd rhetoric of a courtly tongue
Salutes her gentle ears; his lips discover
The amorous language of a wanton lover;
He smiles and fawns, and now and then lets fly
Imperious glances from his sparkling eye;
Bribes her more orient neck with pearl; with
Enclosing bracelets, decks her ivory arms;
He boasts the extent of his imperial power,
And offers wealth and glory for a dower.
Betwixt them both the virgin stands perplex'd;
The first tale pleas'd her well, until the next
Was told; she lik'd the one, the other; loath
To make a choice, she could affect them both;
The one was jocund, full of sprightly mirth,
The other, better born, of nobler birth;
The second sued in a completer fashion;
Ay, but the first show'd deeper wounds of passion;
The first was sadly modest; and the last
More rudely pleasant; his fair looks did cast
More amorous flames; but yet the other's eye
Did promise greater nuptial loyalty.
The last's more; yet riches, but for life,
Make a poor widow of a happy wife:
|