Classic Poem

Ah! mournful case! what can afford
Contentment, when an absent Lord
Will now his kindness neither prove
By smiles of grace, nor lines of love?

What heart can joy, what soul can sing,
While winter over-runs the spring?
I die, yet can't my death condole:
Lord, save a dying, drooping soul.

In pain, yet unconcern'd, I live;
And languish when I should believe.
Lord, if thou cease to come and stay
My soul in sin will pine away.

In sin, whose ill no tongue can tell,
To live is death, to die is hell:
O save, if not from thrall's arrest,
Yet save me, Lord, from sin at least.

This for his merit's sake I seek,
Whose blood and wounds do mercy speak;
Who left the rank of glorious choirs,
And heav'nly flow'rs for earthly briars.

Our Samson took an holy nap
Upon our feeble nature's lap:
He wand'ring in a pilgrim's weed,
Did taste our griefs, to help our need.

Earth's fury did upon him light;
How black was Herod's cruel spite!
Who, to be sure of murd'ring one,
Lest he be spar'd did pity none!

Hell hunts the babe a few days old,
That came to rifle Satan's fold:
All hands pursu'd him ev'n to death,
That came to save from sin and wrath.

O mercy! ignorant of bounds!
Which all created thought confounds;
He ran outright a saving race
For them that unto death him chase.

O sin! how heavy is thy weight,
That press'd the glorious God of might,
Till prostrate on the freezing ground,
He sweat his clotted blood around:

His hand the pond'rous globe does prop,
This weight ne'er made him sweat a drop:
But when sin's load upon him lies,
He falls and sweats, and groans and dies.

Alas! if God sink under sin,
How shall the man that dies therein?
How deeply down, when to the load
He adds the slighted blood of God.

Lord, let thy fall my rise obtain,
Thy grievous shame my glory gain;
Thy cross my lasting crown procure,
Thy death my endless life insure.

O send me down a draught of love,
Or take me hence to drink above:
Here Marah's water fills my cup,
But there all griefs are swallow'd up.

Love here is scarce a faint desire;
But there the sparks a flaming fire.
Joys here are drops that passing flee;
But there an over-flowing sea.

My faith, that sees so darkly here,
Will there resign to vision clear;
My hope, that's here a weary groan,
Will to fruition yield the throne.

Here fetters hamper freedom's wing;
But there the captive is a king:
And grace is like a bury'd seed;
But sinners there are saints indeed.

My portion's here a crumb at best;
But there the Lamb's eternal feast:
My praise is now a smother'd fire;
But then I'll sing and never tire.

Now dusky shadows cloud my day:
But then the shades will flee away:
My Lord will break the dimming glass,
And shew his glory face to face.

My num'rous foes now beat me down:
But then I'll wear the victor's crown:
Yet all the revenues I'll bring
To Zion's everlasting King.