I hold no more commerce with hell, A PREPARATORY THOUGHT FOR THE LORD'S SUPPER. In imitation of Isaiah, Ixiii. 1, 2, 3. WHAT heavenly Man, or lovely God, The Lord! the Saviour! yes, 'tis he, Lo, he reveals his shining breast; Sweet fruit of the sharp pangs he bore! Whence flow these favours so divine? Why for such earthly souls as mine, 'Twas his own love that made him bleed, Then let us taste the Saviour's love, Come faith, and feed upon the Lord: With glad consent our lips shall move, And sweet hosannas crown the board. CONVERSE WITH CHRIST. I'm tir'd with visits, modes, and forms, Their vain amours, and empty stuff: Of thy bless'd company, my Lord, thou life of all my joys! When he begins to tell his love, In midnight shades, on frosty ground, Nor should I feel December cold, nor think the darkness long. There, while I hear my Saviour-God He bore upon the tree; Inward I blush with secret shame, And weep, and love, and bless the name, That knew not guilt nor grief his own, but bare it all for me. Next he describes the thorns he wore, Till I am drown'd in tears: Yet with the sympathetic smart There's a strange joy beats round my heart! The cursed tree has blessings in't, my sweetest balm it bears. I hear the glorious sufferer tell, 'How has the Serpent lost his sting, and where's thy victory, Death?' But when he shows his hands and heart, He sets my soul on fire: Not the beloved John could rest With more delight upon that breast, Nor Thomas pry into those wounds with more intense desire. Kindly he opens me his ear, And bids me pour my sorrows there, And tell him all my pains: Thus while I ease my burden'd heart, In every woe he bears a part, His arms embrace me, and his hand my drooping head sustains. Fly from my thoughts, all human things, My soul disdains that little snare, The tangles of Amira's hair; Thine arms, my God, are sweeter bands, nor can my heart remove. GRACE SHINING. AND NATURE FAINTING. Solomon's Song, i. 3. and ii. 5. and vi. 5. TELL me, fairest of thy kind, Say, thou dear Sovereign of my breast, Ne'er had I known his dearest name, Ne'er had I felt his inward flame, [sound: Had not his heart-strings first began the tender Nor can I bear the thought, that he Should leave the sky, Should bleed and die, Should love a wretch so vile as me, Without returns of passion for his dying wound. His eyes are glory mix'd with grace; Where shall I rest this drooping head? My sinking spirits feebly strive To' endure the ecstasy; Beneath these rays I cannot live, And yet, without them, die. None knows the pleasure and the pain That all my inward powers sustain, [again. But such as feel a Saviour's love, and love the God Oh, why should beauty heavenly bright Stoop to charm a mortal's sight, And torture with the sweet excess of light? Turn, turn away thine eyes, O turn thy lovely glories from me, The joys are too intense, the glories overcome me, |