THE INFINITE. SOME seraph, lend your heavenly tongue, Or harp of golden string, That I may raise a lofty song To our eternal King. Thy names, how infinite they be, Thy glories shine of wondrous size, Thine essence is a vast abyss Which angels cannot sound, An ocean of infinities, Where all our thoughts are drown'd. The mysteries of creation lie Beneath enlighten'd minds; Thoughts can ascend above the sky, And fly before the winds. Reason may grasp the massy hills, In vain our haughty reason swells, CONFESSION AND PARDON. ALAS, my aking heart! Here the keen torment lies It racks my waking hours with smart, And frights my slumb'ring eyes. Guilt will be hid no more, The crimes that blot my conscience o'er Flush crimson in my face. My sorrows, like a flood, Impatient of restraint, Into thy bosom, O my God, Pour out a long complaint. This impious heart of mine How often have I stood The calls, the tenders of a God, He offers all his grace, And all his heaven to me; Offers! but 'tis to senseless brass, That cannot feel nor see. Jesus, the Saviour, stands To court me from above, And looks and spreads his wounded hands, And shows the prints of love. But I, a stupid fool, How long have I withstood The blessings purchas'd with his soul, And paid for all in blood! The heavenly Dove came down, To mount me upward to a crown, And bright immortal things. Lord, I'm asham'd to say And sent thy Spirit griev'd away, To his own realms of love. Not all thine heavenly charms, Could force me to lay down my arms, And bow to thy command. Lord, 'tis against thy face My sins like arrows rise, And yet, and yet (O matchless grace!) Thy thunder silent lies. O shall I never feel The meltings of thy love? Am I of such hell-harden'd steel That mercy cannot move? Now for one powerful glance, Dear Saviour, from thy face! This rebel heart no more withstands, But sinks beneath thy grace. O'ercome by dying love I fall, And throw my flesh, my soul, my all, "Rise," says the Prince of mercy, "rise!" With joy and pity in his eyes: 66 Rise, and behold my wounded veins, "Here flows the blood to wash thy stains. "See my great Father reconcil'd: YOUNG MEN AND MAIDENS, OLD MEN AND BABES, PRAISE YE THE LORD. PSALM CXLVIII. 12. SONS of Adam, bold and young, In the wild mazes of whose veins A flood of fiery vigour reigns, And wields your active limbs, with hardy sinews strung, Fall prostrate at the eternal throne, Whence your precarious powers depend; Nor swell as if your lives were all your own, But choose your Maker for your friend: His favour is your life, his arm is your support, His hand can stretch your days, or cut your minutes short. |