In vain we ask; for all around
Stand silent thro' the heav'nly ground;
There's not a glorious mind above
Has half the strength, or half the love.
But O! unmeasurable grace!
Th' eternal Son takes Adam's place;
Down to our world the Saviour flies,
Stretches his arms, and bleeds and dies.
Amazing work! look down, ye skies,
Wonder and gaze with all your eyes;
Ye saints below and saints above,
All bow to this mysterious love.
224. The rich Fool.
DELUDED Souls! who think to find
A solid bliss below:
Bliss, the fair flow'r of Paradise,
On earth can never grow.
See how the foolish wretch is pleas'd
T'increase his worldly store;
Too scanty now he finds his barns,
And covets room for more.
• What shall I do?' distress'd he cries,
• This scheme will I pursue:
My scanty barns shall now come down, I'll build them large and new.
Here will I lay my fruits, and bid
My soul to take its ease:
Eat, drink, be glad, my lasting store
Shall give what joys I please.'
The tarn
And mould our
Break, sor reigs gra
And give us hearts
Let past ingratitude
Proroke our weeping
And, hourly as new mere
Let hourly thanks arise
226. The Vanity of
Is vain the giddy world eng
Forgetful of their God,
Who will supply our vast d
Or shew us any good?"
Toro' the wide circuit of the ear
Their eager wishes rove,
In chace of honour, wealth, and m
The phantoms of their love.
Bat oft these shad'wy joys elude
Or if they seize the fancied good,
Their most intense pursuit:
There's poison in the fruit.
and, from this world call off my love
Set my affections right:
me aspire to joys above,
And walk no more by sight.
let the glories of thy face
Upon my bosom shine:
ur'd of thy forgiving grace,
My joys will be divine
Turn, turn us, mighty God,
And mould our souls afresh:
Break, sov'reign grace, these hearts of stone,
And give us hearts of flesh.
Let past ingratitude
Provoke our weeping eyes;
And, hourly as new mercies fall,
Let hourly thanks arise.
The Vanity of the World.
IN vain the giddy world enquires,
Forgetful of their God,
Who will supply our vast desires,
Or shew us any good?'
Thro' the wide circuit of the earth
Their eager wishes rove,
In chace of honour, wealth, and mirth,
The phantoms of their love.
But oft these shad'wy joys elude
Their most intense pursuit:
Or if they seize the fancied good,
There's poison in the fruit.
Lord, from this world call off my love,
Set my affections right:
Bid me aspire to joys above,
And walk no more by sight.
O let the glories of thy face
Upon my bosom shine:
Assur'd of thy forgiving grace,
My joys will be divine.
227. The Deceit of the World.
WORLD, adieu! thou real cheat,
Oft have thy deceitful charms
Fill'd my heart with fond conceit,
Foolish hopes, and false alarms:
Now I see as clear as day'
How thy follies pass away.
Vain thy entertaining sights,
False thy promises renew'd,
All the pomp of thy delights
Does but flatter and delude;
Thee I quit for heav'n above,
Object of the noblest love.
Farewel honour's empty pride,
Thy own nice, uncertain gust,
If the least mischance betide,
Lays thee lower than the dust:
Worldly honours end in gall,
Rise to-day, to-morrow fall.
Foolish vanity, farewel;
More inconstant than the wave,
Where thy soothing fancies dwell,
Purest tempers they deprave;
He, to whom I fly from thee,
Jesus Christ shall set me free.
Let not, Lord, my wand'ring mind
Follow after fleeting toys,
Since in thee alone I find
Solid and substantial joys:
Joys that never over-past,
Thro' eternity shall last.
Lord, how happy is the heart
After thee while it aspires!
True and faithful as thou art,
Thou shalt answer its desires;
It shall see the glorious scene
. Of thine everlasting reign.
228. Transgressors.
ARISE, my tend'rest thoughts, arise,
To torrents melt my streaming eyes;
And thou, my heart, with anguish feel
Those evils, which thou canst not heal.
See human nature sunk in shame;
See scandals pour'd on Jesu's name;
The Father wounded thro' the Son;
The world abus'd; the soul undone.
See the short course of vain delight
Closing in everlasting night,
In flames, that no abatement know,
Tho' briny tears for ever flow.
My God, I feel the mournful scene:
My bowels
yearn o'er dying men;
And fain my pity would reclaim,
And snatch the fire-brands from the flame.
But feeble my compassion proves,
And can but weep where most it loves:
Thy own all-saving arm employ,
And turn these drops of grief to joy.
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