{9}
O THAT Thou wouldest rend the breadth of sky, |
| That veils Thy presence from the sons of men! |
| O that, as erst Thou camest from on high |
| Sudden in strength, Thou so would'st come again! |
| Track'd out by judgments was Thy fiery path, |
| Ocean and mountain withering in Thy wrath! |
Then would Thy name—the Just, the Merciful— |
| Strange dubious attributes to human mind, |
| Appal Thy foes; and, kings, who spurn Thy rule, |
| Then, then would quake to hopeless doom |
| consign'd. |
| See, the stout bows, and totters the secure, |
| While pleasure's bondsman hides his head impure! |
{10}
Come down! for then shall from its seven bright |
| springs |
| To him who thirsts the draught of life be given; |
| Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard the things |
| Which He hath purposed for the heirs of heaven,— |
| A God of love, guiding with gracious ray |
| Each meek rejoicing pilgrim on his way. |
Yea, though we err, and Thine averted face |
| Rebukes the folly in Thine Israel done, |
| Will not that hour of chastisement give place |
| To beams, the pledge of an eternal sun? |
| Yes for His counsels to the end endure; |
| We shall be saved, our rest abideth sure. |
Lord, Lord! our sins ... our sins ... unclean are we, |
| Gross and corrupt; our seeming-virtuous deeds |
| Are but abominate; all, dead to Thee, |
| Shrivel, like leaves when summer's green recedes; |
| While, like the autumn blast, our lusts arise, |
| And sweep their prey where the fell serpent lies. |
None, there is none to plead with God in prayer |
| Bracing his laggart spirit to the work {11} |
| Of intercession; conscience-sprung despair, |
| Sin-loving still, doth in each bosom lurk. |
| Guilt calls Thee to avenge;—Thy risen ire |
| Sears like a brand, we gaze and we expire. |
But now, O Lord, our Father! we are Thine, |
| Design and fashion; senseless while we lay, |
| Thou, as the potter, with a Hand Divine, |
| Didst mould Thy vessels of the sluggish clay. |
| Mark not our guilt, Thy word of wrath recall, |
| we are Thine by price, Thy people all! |
Alas for Zion! 'tis a waste;—the fair, |
| The holy place in flames;—where once our sires |
| Kindled the sacrifice of praise and prayer, |
| Far other brightness gleams from Gentile fires. |
| Low lies our pride;—and wilt Thou self-deny |
| Thy rescuing arm unvex'd amid thine Israel's cry? |
|
Brighton.
September, 1821
|