The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley

And is the happy spirit fled?
And is she number'd with the dead,
Who live to God above?
Make haste, my soul, her steps pursue,
And fight like her thy passage through,
To yon bright throne of love.

By her example fired I rise,
My blissful mansion in the skies
Determined to secure;
And if I dare believe the word,
And follow her as she her Lord,
The glorious prize is sure.

The speaking saint, though dead, I hear,
Who pass'd her time in lowly fear,
Her cheerful time below:
A daily death on earth she died,
Her Jesus, and Him crucified,
Resolved alone to know.

Since first she felt the sprinkled blood,
She never lost her hold of God,
She never went astray;
When stronger souls their Lord forsook,
And shamefully threw off His yoke,
And cast His cross away.

His welcome cross with joy she bore,
And trod the path He trod before,
And close pursued the Lamb:
His faithful confessor she stood,
And simply own'd the dying God,
And gloried in His shame.

Regardless of their smile, and frown,
She calmly on the world look'd down,
With grief, and wonder moved
That every tongue should not confess,
And every heart her Lord embrace,
Whom more than life she loved.

With all her heart she clave to God,
Her love by her obedience show'd,
In all His statutes found,
In all the channels of His grace,
Her soul revered the hallow'd place,
And kiss'd the sacred ground.

The new-born babe desired the word,
She flew with joy to meet her Lord,
Assembled with His own:
In vain the feeble body fail'd,
The soul its tottering clay upheld,
And lived by faith alone.

Before the morning watch her cry
Prevail'd with God, and from the sky
Brought showers of blessings down:
Her treasure, heart, and life was there,
And all her toil and all her care,
To' ensure the starry crown.

For this she counted all things loss,
And still took up her Master's cross,
Her Master's joy to know:
Above the reach of sense and pride,
With Jesus fully crucified,
And dead to all below.

Her meat His counsel to fulfil,
Her whole delight to do His will,
The task of love sincere
With daily transport to repeat,
And wash His dear disciples' feet,
And serve His members here.

Her fervent zeal what tongue can tell?
Her wise, and meek, though fervent zeal
Poor precious souls to win:
Her artless eloquence constrain'd,
Her simple charity unfeign'd
Compell'd them to come in.

Resolved, her house should serve the Lord,
The parent unto Him restored
The children He had given,
Her care, and them, on God she cast:
The wife her husband saved at last,
And follow'd him to heaven.

Awhile she lay detain'd beneath,
To triumph in the toils of death,
The truth to testify,
To aid the church with mighty prayers,
And deal her blessings to her heirs,
And teach us how to die.

More than resign'd in mortal pain,
How joyfully did she sustain,
And bless the welcome load!
“Do what ye will with this weak clay,
Yet, O! the soul ye cannot stay,
Or keep me from my God.

“My God hath called me hence,” she cried,
“The Lamb hath now prepared His bride,
And sign'd my soul's release;
I rest within the arms Divine,
He is, He is for ever mine,
The Lord my righteousness.

“In life and death I bless His name,
Who sent His servants to proclaim
The everlasting word:
That word hath saved me from all sin;
And O! my friends abide therein,
And ye shall see my Lord.

“Obedient faith in Jesu's blood,
This is the way that leads to God;
That saves your dying friend.
To Jesus and His servants cleave,
His word, and ordinance receive,
And ye shall soon ascend.

“The gate shall soon unfold to you,
The gate I now am passing through,
My heavenly bliss to share:
My mounting soul is on the wing,
I hear the saints on Sion sing,
And die to meet them there!”

University of Virginia Library

CLXXVI. ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH WITHAM.