Tho' Hell's my juft Reward for Sin,
Heav'n as my jutt Reward I'll win.
Both these my juft Rewards I know,
Yet truly neither of them fo.
Hell can't in Juftice be my Lot,
Since Juftice Satisfaction got;
Nor Heav'n in Juftice be my Share,
Since Mercy only brings me there.
Yet Heav'n is mine by folemn Oath,
In Juftice and in Mercy both:
And God in Chrift is all my Trust,
Because he's merciful and juft.
CONCLUSION.
ERE is the Riddle, where's the Man
Of Judgment to expound?
For Mafters fam'd that cannot scan,
In Ifrael may be found.
We juftly these in Wifdom's Lift
Eftablish'd Saints may call,
Whose bitter-fweet Experience bleft
Can clearly grafp it all.
Some Babes in Grace may mint and mar,
Yet aiming right fucceed:
But Strangers they in Ifrael are,
Who not at all can read.
The BELIEVER'S LODGING and inn while on Earth :
A Poem and Paraphrafe upon Pfal. lxxxiv.
Verfe 1. How amiable are thy Tabernacles, O Lord of Hofts!
Ehovah, Father, Son, and Holy Ghoft,
Sole Monarch of the univerfal Hoft,
Whom the attendant Armies ftill revere,
Which in bright Robes furround the higher Sphere:
Whofe Sov'reign Empire fways the hellish Band
Of ranked Legions in th' infernal Land:
Who hold'ft the Earth at thy unrivall'd Beck,
And stay'ft proud Forces with a humbling Check;
E'en thou whofe Name commands an awful Dread,
Yet deigns to dwell with Man in very Deed.
O what Refreshment fills the Dwelling-Place,
Of thine exurberant unbounded Grace!
Which with sweet Power does Joy and Praife extort,
In Zion's Tents thine ever-lov'd Refort.
Where gladning Streams of Mercy from above,
Make Souls brim full of warm Seraphic Love.
Of sweetest Odours all thy Garment fmells,
Thy difmal Abfence proves a thousand Hells,
But Heav'ns of Joy are where thine Honour dwells.
Verse 2. My Soul longeth, yea even fainteth, for the
Courts of the Lord: My Heart and Flesh crieth out
for the living God.
Therefore on thee I center my Defire,
Which vehemently burfts out in ardent Fire.
Deprived, ah! I languish in my Plaint,
My Bones are feeble, and my Spirits faint.
My longing Soul pants to behold again,
Thy Temple fill'd with thy Majestick Train.
Thefe Palaces with heav'nly Odour flrew'd,
And Regal Courts, where Zion's King is view'd:
To fee the Beauty of the Highest One,
Upon his holy Mount, his lofty Throne :
Whence Virtue running from the living Head,
Reftores the Dying, and revives the Dead.
For him, my Heart with Cries repeated founds,
To which my Flesh with Echoes loud rebounds;
For him, for him, who Life in Death can give;
For him, for him, whofe fole Prerogative,
Is from, and to, Eternity to live.
Verse 3. Yea the Sparrow hath found an Houfe, and the Swallow a Neft for herself, where he may lay her young; even thine Altars, O Lord of Hafts, my King and my God,
Alas! How from thy lovely Dwellings I,
Long banish'd do the happy Birds envy ;
Which choofing thy high Altars for their Neft,
On Rafters of thy Tabernacle reft.
Here dwells the Sparrow of a chirping Tongue,
And here the Swallow lays her tender young:
Faint Sacrilege! they feize the facred Spot,
And seem to glory o'er my abfent Lot:
Yet fure I have more fpecial Right to thee,
Than all the brutal Hofts of Earth and Sea;
That Sov'reign at whofe Government they bow,
Is wholly mine by his eternal Vow;
My King to rule my Heart, and quell my Foes,
My God t'extract my Well from prefent Woes,
And crown with endless Glory at the Close.
Verfe 4. Bleed are they that dwell in thy House,
they will be still praising thee.
O happy they that haunt thy House below,
And to thy Royal Sanctuary flow:
Not for itfelf, but for the glorious One,
Who there inhabits his erected Throne.
Others pafs by, but here their Dwelling is;
O happy People crown'd with Bays of Blifs!
Bleft with the fplendid Lufire of his Face,
Bleft with the high melodious Sound of Grace,
That wakens Souls into a fweet Amaze,
And turns their Spirits to a Harp of Praise;
Which loudly makes the lower Temple ring,
With Hallelujahs to the mighty King:
And thus they antedate the nobler Song
Of that celeftial and triumphant Throng,
Who warble Notes of Praife Eternity along.
Ver. 5. Bleffed is the Man whofe Strength is in thee-
What Weights of Bliss their happy Shoulders load,
Whofe Strength lies treafur'd in a potent God?
Self-drained Souls, yet flowing to the Brim,
Because void in themselves, but full in him.
Adam the Firft difcufs'd their Stock of Strength,
The Second well retriev'd the Sum at length:
Who keep'ft himself, a furer Hand indeed,
To give not as they lift, but as they need,
When raging Furies threaten fudden Harms,
He then extends his everlafting Arms;
When Satan drives his pointed fiery Darts,
He gives them Courage and undaunted Hearts,
To quell his deadly Force with divine Skill,
And adds new Strength to do their Sov'reign's Will,
When fore harrafs'd by fome outrageous Luft,
He levelling its Power unto the Duft,
Makes Saints to own him worthy of their Truft.
Verfe 6. In whofe Hearts are the Ways of them, who paffing through the Valley of Baca, make it a Well; the Rain alfo filleth the Pools.
Such Heav'n-born Souls are not to Earth confin'd,.
Truth's Highway fills their elevated Mind:
They bound for Zion, prefs with forward Aim,
As Ifrael's Males to old Jerufalem,
Their holy Path lies through a parched Land,
Through Oppofitions num'rous and grand.
Traverfing fcorched Defarts, ragged Rocks,
And Baca's wither'd Vale like thirty Flocks;.
Yet with unfhaken Vigour homeward go,
Not mov'd by all oppofing Harms below.
They digging Wells on this Gilboa Top,
The Vale of Achor yields a Door of Hope;
For Heaven in Plenty does, their Labour crown,
By making filver Showers to trickle down:
'Till empty Pools imbibe a pleafant Fill,
And weary
Souls are hearten'd up the Hill,
By mafly Drops of Joy which down distil.
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