Sure here no false delay can charm the mind, But not to lead the sinner back to God. "'Tis true," he cries, “I've sinned, but all have sin; "Tis ne'er too late repentance to begin, And God is ever ready to forgive: I'll leave my evil courses, if I live ; He's gracious too, and in his grace I trust." And oft does treach'rous hope the mind beguile; Hope nourish'd by the friends' mistaken wile, Who cheer his heart with themes of other years, Assuage his sorrows, and divert his fears, Not by the love of Him who died to save, But by oblivion of the yawning grave. His ghastly stillness after fever's rage, And sinking pulse, a speedy death presage.Though asthma cut the breath, and hectic bloom, Or fierce catarrh consumption's victim doom,Though hoary lock and wither'd limbs proclaim That life's last tide forsakes the sinking frame, His thoughts are still of life, nor does he dwell On what he hopes of heav'n or fears of hell, Assents to all you tell of Christ and God, Of the soul's worth, and of its last abode; But all do not presume, nor all despair : These hast thou seen amid their toils severe The king of terrors made himself a spoil, THANKSGIVING. O God! of old thou hast declared That in thick darkness thou wouldst dwell; O, God! I have an house prepared For thee, the God of Israel; O, God! for thy approving sign, We thank thee-humbly thee adore! THE SCRIPTURES. Kelly. I LOVE the sacred Book of God; Sweet book, in thee my eyes discern The image of my absent Lord; From thine instructive page I learn The joys his presence will afford. In thee I read my title clear To mansions that will ne'er decay ; Then shall I need thy light no more, When midst the throng celestial placed, The bright original I see, From which thy sacred page was traced, But while I'm here, thou shalt supply I know his Spirit breathes in thee, May thy sweet truths prove life to me, THE MARTYR'S HYMN. W. Johnson. HOLY Jesus! King of Glory! Hosts on high thy praise proclaim; Joyful would my soul adore thee, That I suffer for thy name. Now I leave this world of sorrow, Leave this faint and dying clay, Soar on angels' wings, to borrow Robes of angels' bright array. Set, O set my spirit free; Let me die, to live with thee! Now I see thee, Saviour, bending From thy glorious throne on high : See the cherubim descending, With the chariots of the sky. Realms of everlasting love. Set, O set my spirit free; |