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(KIRKE WAITB.) AWAKE, sweet harp of Judah, wake, Retune thy strings for Jesu's sake; We sing the Saviour of our race, The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place. When God's right arm is bared for war, The thunders clothe bis cloudy car. Where, where, oh where, shall man retire, To 'scape the horrors of his ire ? 'Tis He, the Lamb, to him we fly, While the dread tempest passes by; God sees his well-beloved's face, And spares us in his hiding-place. Thus, while we dwell in this low scene, The Lamb is our unfailing screen; To him, though guilty, still we run, And God still spares us for his Son. While yet we sojourn here below, Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow; Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, We deeply need a hiding-place.
Yet courage-days and years will glide,
Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
Blest are they, Who in this fleshly world, the elect of Heaven, Their strong eye darting thro’ the deeds of men, Adore with stedfast unpresuming gaze Him, Nature's Essence, Mind, and Energy! And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend, Treading beneath their feet all visible things, As steps, that upward to their Father's throne Lead gradual-else nor glorified nor lov’d. They nor contempt embosom nor revenge : For they dare know of what may seem deform, The Supreme Fair, sole Operant; in whose sight All things are pure, his strong controlling love Alike from all educing perfect good.
Their's too celestial courage, inly arm’d, Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse On their great Father, great beyond compare ! And marching onwards view high o'er their heads His waving banners of omnipotence.
They cannot dread created might, who love God, the Creator !—fair and lofty thought! It lifts and swells my heart! And as I muse, Behold! a vision gathers in Voices and shadowy shapes, in human guise. I seem to see the phantom, near, pass by, Hotly-pursued, and pale! From rock to rock He bounds with bleeding feet, and thro' the swamp, The quicksand, and the groaning wilderness, Struggles with feebler and yet feebler flight. But lo! an altar in the wilderness, And eagerly yet feebly, lo! he grasps The altar of the living God! and there, With wan reverted face, the trembling wretch All wildly list’ning to his hunter-fiends, Stands, till the last faint echo of their yell Dies in the distance. Soon refresh'd from Heaven He calms the throb and tempest of his heart. His countenance settles: a soft solemn bliss Swims in his eyes : his swimming eyes uprais’d, And Faith's whole armour girds his limbs! And thus, Transfigur’d, with a meek and dreadless awe, A solemn hush of spirit, he beholds All things of terrible seeming : yea, unmoy'd Views e'en the immitigable ministers, That shower down vengeance on these latter days. For even these on wings of healing come, Yea, kindling with intenser Deity; From the celestial mercy-seat they speed, And at the renovating wells of love, Have fill’d their vials with salutary wrath ; To sickly Nature more medicinal, Than what sweet balm the weeping good man pours Into the lone, despoiled, trav’ller's wounds!
Thus, from th’ Elect, regenerate thro' faith, Pass the dark passions, and what thirsty cares
Drink up the spirit, and the dim regards
There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind,
'Tis the sublime of man, Our noontide majesty, to know ourselves
Parts and proportions of one wond'rous whole!