The Lord! the Saviour! yes, 'tis he; Lo, he reveals his shining breast; Sweet fruit of the sharp pangs he bore. Whence flow these favours so divine? "Twas his own love that made him bleed, That nail'd him to the cursed tree; "Twas his own love this table spread For such unworthy worms as we. Then let us taste the Saviour's love; Come, faith, and feed upon the Lord; With glad consent our lips shall move, And sweet hosannas crown the board. CONVERSE WITH CHRIST. I'm tir'd with visits, modes, and forms, Their vain amours, and empty stuff; Of thy best company, my Lord, thou life of all my joys. When he begins to tell his love, Through every vein my passions move, In midnight shades, on frosty ground, Nor should I feel December cold, nor think the darkness long. There, while I hear my Saviour-God He bore upon the tree, Inward I blush with secret shame, And weep, and love, and bless the name That knew not guilt nor grief his own, but bare it all for me. Next he describes the thorns he wore, Till I am drown'd in tears; Yet, with the sympathetic smart, There's a strange joy beats round my heart; The cursed tree has blessings in 't, my sweetest balm it bears. I hear the glorious Sufferer tell, "How has the serpent lost his sting, and where's thy victory, death?" But when he shows his hands and heart, He sets my soul on fire; Not the beloved John could rest With more delight upon that breast, Nor Thomas pry into those wounds with more intense desire. Kindly he opens me his ear, And bids me pour my sorrow there, And tell him all my pains; Thus while I ease my burden'd heart, In every woe he bears a part, His arms embrace me, and his hand my drooping head sustains. Fly from my thoughts, all human things, My soul disdains that little snare, The tangles of Amira's hair; Thine arms, my God, are sweeter bands, nor can my heart remove. GRACE SHINING, AND NATURE FAINTING. SOL. SONG, I. 3; II. 5; VI. 5. TELL me, fairest of thy kind, May relieve such cares as mine. Say, thou dear Sovereign of my breast, Why should I appear like one Unbeloved and unknown? O my great Redeemer, say, Ne'er had I known his dearest name, Ne'er had I felt this inward flame, Had not his heart-strings first begun the tender sound; Nor can I bear the thought, that he Should leave the sky, Should bleed and die, Should love a wretch so vile as me, Without returns of passion for his dying wound. His eyes are glory mixed with grace; In his delightful awful face Sits majesty and gentleness. So tender is my bleeding heart And feel his warmer smiles. Where shall I rest this drooping head? I love, I love the sun, and yet I want the shade. My sinking spirits feebly strive To endure the ecstasy; Beneath these rays I cannot live, And yet without them die |