Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have their being when compared with Thee.
In having all things and not Thee, what have I?
Not having Thee, what have my labours got?
Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave I?
And having Thee alone, what have I not?
I wish not sea nor land; nor would I be
Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of Thee.
FLEEING FROM WRATH.
O WHITHER shall I fly? what path untrod
Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?
Where shall I sojourn? What kind sea will hide
My head from thunder? Where shall I abide
Until his flames be quenched or laid aside?
What if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas! no shades can blind the God of light.
What if my soul should take the wings of day
And find some desert? If she springs away,
The wings of vengeance clip2 as fast as they.
What if some solid rock should entertain
My frighted soul? can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of justice, and not cleave in twain?
Nor sea, nor shade, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave,
What flame-eyed fury means to smite, can save.
The seas will part, graves open, rocks will split,
The shield will cleave, the frighted shadows flit;
Where Justice aims, her fiery dart must hit.
No, no, if stern-browed Vengeance means to thunder,
There is no place above, beneath, or under,
So close but will unlock, or rive in sunder.
'Tis vain to flee; 'tis neither here nor there
Can 'scape that hand, until that hand forbear:
Ah me! where is He not, that's every where?
'Tis vain to flee, till gentle Mercy show
Her better eye; the farther off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow.
The ingenuous child, corrected doth not fly
His angry mother's hand; but climbs more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.
Shadows are faithless, and the rocks are false,
No trust in brass, no trust in marble walls,
Poor cots are even as safe as princes' halls.
Great God! there is no safety here below;
Thou art my fortress, Thou that seem'st my foe,
'Tis Thou, that strik'st the stroke, must guard the blow.
Thou art my God, by Thee I fall or stand;
Thy grace hath given me courage to withstand
All tortures by my conscience and thy hand.
I know thy justice is Thyself; I know,
Just God, thy very self is mercy too:
If not to Thee, where, whither shall I go?
Then work thy will; if passion bid me flee,
My reason shall obey; my wings shall be
Stretched out no farther than from Thee to Thee.
So now the soul's sublimed, her sour desires
Are recalcined in heaven's well tempered fires;
The heart restored, and purged from drossy nature,
Now finds the freedom of a new-born creature ;
It lives another life, it breathes new breath,
It neither fears nor feels the sting of death.
Like as the idle vagrant, (having none,)
That bold adopts each house he views his own,
Makes every purse his chequer, and at pleasure,
Walks forth and taxes all the world like Cæsar;
At length, by virtue of a just command,
His sides are lent to a severer hand;
Whereon his pass, not fully understood,
Is taxed in a manuscript of blood;
Thus passed from town to town, until he come,
A sore repentant to his native home:
E'en so the rambling heart, that idly roves
From crimes to sin, and uncontrolled, removes
From lust to lust, when wanton flesh invites,
From old worn pleasures, to new choice delights.
At length, corrected by the filial rod
Of his offended, and his gracious God,
And lashed from sins to sighs, and by degrees
From sighs to vows, from vows to bended knees;
From bended knees, to a true pensive breast;
From thence to torments, not by tongues exprest,
Returns; and (from his sinful self exiled,)
Finds a glad Father; He, a welcome child:
Oh! then it lives! Oh! then it lives involved
In secret raptures; pants to be dissolved:
The royal offspring of a second birth,
Sets ope to heaven, and shuts the door to earth.
If love-sick Jove commanded clouds should hap
To rain such showers as quickened Danae's lap;
Or dogs, (far kinder than their purple master,)
Should lick his sores, he laughs nor weeps the faster.
If earth, heaven's rival, dart her idle ray,
To heaven 'tis wax, and to the world 'tis clay.
If earth present delights, it scorns to draw;
But like the jet unrubbed, disdains that straw;
No hope deceives it, and no doubt divides it,
No grief disturbs it, and no error guides it,
No good contemns it, and no virtue blames it,
No guilt condemns it, and no folly shames it,
No sloth besots it, and no lust enthrals it,
No scorn afflicts it, and no passion galls it;
It is a carcanet3 of immortal life,
An ark of peace, the lists of sacred strife,
A purer piece of endless transitory,
A shrine of grace, a little throne of glory,
A heaven-born offspring of a new-born birth, An earthly heaven, an ounce of heavenly earth.
TIME FOR REPENTANCE.
My glass is half unspent; forbear t' arrest
My thriftless day too soon: my poor request
Is, that my glass may run but out the rest.
My time-devoured minutes will be done,
Without thy help; see, see how swift they run:
Cut not my thread, before my thread be spun.
The gain's not great I purchase by this stay;
What loss sustain'st Thou by so small delay,
To whom ten thousand years are but a day?
My following eye can hardly make a shift
To count my winged hours; they fly so swift,
They scarce deserve the bounteous name of gift.
The secret wheels of hurrying time do give
So short a warning, and so fast they drive,
That I am dead, before I seem to live.
And what's a life? a weary pilgrimage,
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age.
And what's a life? the flourishing array
Of the proud summer meadow, which to day
Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.
3 A necklace or collar of jewels.
Read on this dial, how the shades devour
My short-lived winter's day; hour eats up hour:
Alas, the total's but from eight to four.
Behold these lilies, (which thy hands have made,
Fair copies of my life, and open laid
To view,) how soon they droop, how soon they fade!
Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon;
My non-aged day already points to noon;
How simple is my suit, how small my boon!
Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile
The time away, or safely to beguile
My thoughts with joy; here's nothing but a smile.
No, no! 'tis not to please my wanton ears
With frantic mirth, I beg but hours, not years,
And what Thou giv'st me, I will give to tears.
Draw not that soul, which would be rather led!
That seed has yet not broke my serpent's head;
Oh! shall I die before my sins are dead?
Behold these rags; am I a fitting guest
To taste the dainties of thy royal feast,
With hands and face unwashed, ungirt, unblest?
First let the Jordan streams (that find supplies
From the deep fountain of thy heart) arise,
And cleanse my spots, and clear my leprous eyes.
I have a world of sins to be lamented;
I have a sea of tears that must be vented;
Oh! spare till then, and then I die contented.
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