Classic Poem

Hear! O my Father, let me once prevail;
Nor deem it Boldness—this my pious Zeal.
Fain wou'd I charm th' Attention with my Rhime,
And make thee listen to a Theme sublime;
Which like a Cordial, to thy Soul shall be,
(The healing Balm, kind Heav'n, distil thro' me:)
Pour it, O Lord, into each gaping Wound,
And kindly probe 'em, 'till the Whole be sound.
Give him a View of Happiness, so pure
That but one Glimpse, may chance t' effect his Cure.

Let me invite thee, Father, to the Place,
Where Heav'n's dread King! sits on the Throne of Grace!
Where Joy celestial, doth incessant roll,
Diffusing Gladness on each happy Soul;
Where Face to Face, we may our Maker view,
And join in Praises, that's alone his Due.
But that Admittance, may not be deny'd,
Let us a Wedding-garment, first, provide;
Strip off, the ragged Garb of Sin we wear,
But in the Change, let us avoid Despair,
That is a Dress, so coarse and dismal too,
We'd be afraid our Journey to pursue.

Let us Repentance, for a Robe prepare,
Faith, for a Breast-plate, next our Hearts we'll wear;
Hope, as a Helmet, shall adorn our Head,
And o'er our Shoulders, Charity we'll spread.
Thus when array'd, we boldly may go on;
Nor fear Admittance when our Glass is run.

More Joy's in Heaven, doth the Lord declare,
O'er one poor Sinner, who repenteth here,
Than Ninety-nine just Persons can bestow:
Then give that Joy, Dear Father, ere you go
To pay the Debt, which all to Nature owe.