That voice, which to each secret bed
Of my Lord's dead,
Shall bring true day, and make dust see
The way to immortality?
When shall those first white pilgrims rise,
Whose holy, happy histories,
Because they sleep so long, some men
Count but the blots of a vain pen ?
Dear Lord! make haste!
Sin every day commits more waste;
And thy old enemy, which knows
His time is short, more raging grows.
Nor moan I onely, though profuse,
Thy creature's bondage and abuse;
But what is highest sin and shame,
The vile despight done to thy name;
The forgeries which impious wit
And power force on Holy Writ,
With all detestable designs,
That may dishonor those pure lines.
O God! though mercy be in thee
The greatest attribute we see,
And the most needful for our sins;
Yet, when thy mercy nothing wins
But meer disdain, let not man say
Thy arm doth sleep; but write this day
Thy judging one: Descend, descend!
Make all things new, and without end!
SION's true, glorious God! on thee
Praise waits in all humility.
All flesh shall unto thee repair,
To thee, O thou that hearest prayer!
But sinful words and works still spread
And overrun my heart and head;
Transgressions make me foul each day;
O purge them, purge them all away!
Happy is he whom thou wilt choose
To serve thee in thy blessed house!
Who in thy holy temple dwells,
And fill'd with joy thy goodness tells!
King of salvation! by strange things
And terrible thy justice brings
Man to his duty. Thou alone
Art the world's hope, and but thee, none.
Sailors that flote on flowing seas
Stand firm by thee, and have sure peace.
Thou still'st the loud waves, when most wild,
And mak'st the raging people mild.
Thy arm did first the mountains lay,
And girds their rocky heads this day.
The most remote, who know not thee,
At thy great works astonish'd be.
The outgoings of the even and dawn,
In antiphones sing to thy name :
Thou visit'st the low earth, and then
Water'st it for the sons of men;
Thy upper river, which abounds
With fertil streams, makes rich all grounds;
And, by thy mercies still supplied,
The sower doth his bread provide.
Thou water'st every ridge of land,
And settlest with thy secret hand
The furrows of it; then thy warm
And opening showers, restrain'd from harm,
Soften the mould, while all unseen
The blade grows up alive and green.
The year is with thy goodness crown'd,
And all thy paths drop fatness round;
They drop upon the wilderness,
For thou dost even the desarts bless,
And hills all full of springing pride,
Wear fresh adornments on each side.
The fruitful flocks fill every dale,
And purling corn doth cloath the vale;
They shout for joy, and joyntly sing,
"Glory to the eternal King!"
WHEN with these eyes, clos'd now by thee,
But then restor❜d,
The great and white throne I shall see
Of my dread Lord;
And lowly kneeling, for the most
Still then must kneel,
Shall look on Him at whose high cost
Unseen such joys I feel.
Whatever arguments or skill
Wise heads shall use,
Tears onely and my blushes still
I will produce.
And should those speechless beggers fail,
Which oft have won,
Then taught by thee I will prevail,
And say, "Thy will be done!"
THOUGH since thy first sad entrance by
Just Abel's blood,
'Tis now six thousand years well nigh,
And still thy sovereignty holds good;
Yet by none art thou understood.
We talk and name thee with much ease,
And every one can slight his lease,
As if it ended in a spring,
Which shades and bowers doth rent-free bring.
To thy dark land these heedless go.
But there was One
Who search'd it quite through to and fro,
And then, returning like the sun,
Discover'd all that there is done.
And since his death we throughly see
All thy dark way;
Thy shades but thin and narrow be,
Which his first looks will quickly fray:
Mists make but triumphs for the day.
As harmless violets, which give
Their virtues here
For salves and syrups while they live,
Do after calmly disappear,
And neither grieve, repine, nor fear:
So dye his servants; and as sure
Shall they revive.
Then let not dust your eyes obscure,
But lift them up, where still alive,
Though fled from you, their spirits hive.
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