The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse (1735-1820): Edited by the Rev. R. I. Woodhouse |
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CHAPTER 6th.
The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse |  |
Man—prostrate fall—and press thy parent, Earth,
Before that Pow'r which gave thy Being birth,
In reverence most profound! all Self resign'd,
All pow'r's and faculties of Frame and Mind!
While boundless and sublime conceptions rise,
Of Him who built, and bless'd, both Earth, and Skies!
Forgive, dear Saviour! while thy Creature dares
Compare Thy pangs to Crispin's pains and cares!
While Man presumes to bare a Sinner's breast,
And trace thy mangled image there impress'd!
Presumes to find some faint resemblance strike!
Presumes to say a Point, and Space are like!
To match a Moment with Eternity,
Or dream a Mortal may compare with Thee!
No Pow'r but Thine could ever hope to quell
A warring World allied with Hosts of Hell!
No other Goodness, and no other Grace,
Could ransom, and reform, a ruin'd Race!
None but thy matchless Wisdom—boundless Might—
Could frame the measure, and enforce the fight!
No other Satisfaction save one Foe,
One daring Rebel from unending Woe!
None but Thy matchless Merit—deathless Love—
E'er purchase and prepare those Realms above,
Where Man, redeem'd by Jesus, may enjoy
Life, without limit—bliss, without alloy!
While no mere Man might Worth or Merit boast,
Nor one pure Spirit in the heavenly Host—
Nor Demons, damn'd, nor Mankind's blood all spilt,
Could cleanse one Sinner from one stain of guilt!
No worth of Worlds; no Seraph's strength, sustain,
The Wrath of Heav'n—its penalties and pain!
Much less lost Man one Merit plead with God,
To claim reward, or 'scape His fatal rod.
The Heirs of Heav'n may, here, true raptures taste,
The first-fruits of their future rich repast;
Yet every sinful Soul, must prove, in part,
Their Saviour's wants and sorrows, shame and smart—
Sharp stripes and piercings, with Heav'n's mercies mixt,
All must experience till their fate be fixt'
None, here, are purg'd and pure from fleshly sins,
Till Death be past, and perfect bliss begins—
But woe to them, provoking Pow'r, immense!
Who give God's little Children foul offence;
'Twere better their base necks a millstone bore,
Plung'd in deep seas amidst wild billows roar!
Before that Pow'r which gave thy Being birth,
In reverence most profound! all Self resign'd,
All pow'r's and faculties of Frame and Mind!
While boundless and sublime conceptions rise,
Of Him who built, and bless'd, both Earth, and Skies!
Forgive, dear Saviour! while thy Creature dares
Compare Thy pangs to Crispin's pains and cares!
While Man presumes to bare a Sinner's breast,
And trace thy mangled image there impress'd!
Presumes to find some faint resemblance strike!
Presumes to say a Point, and Space are like!
To match a Moment with Eternity,
Or dream a Mortal may compare with Thee!
No Pow'r but Thine could ever hope to quell
A warring World allied with Hosts of Hell!
No other Goodness, and no other Grace,
Could ransom, and reform, a ruin'd Race!
None but thy matchless Wisdom—boundless Might—
Could frame the measure, and enforce the fight!
No other Satisfaction save one Foe,
One daring Rebel from unending Woe!
None but Thy matchless Merit—deathless Love—
E'er purchase and prepare those Realms above,
Where Man, redeem'd by Jesus, may enjoy
Life, without limit—bliss, without alloy!
While no mere Man might Worth or Merit boast,
Nor one pure Spirit in the heavenly Host—
Nor Demons, damn'd, nor Mankind's blood all spilt,
Could cleanse one Sinner from one stain of guilt!
No worth of Worlds; no Seraph's strength, sustain,
The Wrath of Heav'n—its penalties and pain!
Much less lost Man one Merit plead with God,
To claim reward, or 'scape His fatal rod.
The Heirs of Heav'n may, here, true raptures taste,
The first-fruits of their future rich repast;
Yet every sinful Soul, must prove, in part,
Their Saviour's wants and sorrows, shame and smart—
Sharp stripes and piercings, with Heav'n's mercies mixt,
All must experience till their fate be fixt'
None, here, are purg'd and pure from fleshly sins,
Till Death be past, and perfect bliss begins—
But woe to them, provoking Pow'r, immense!
Who give God's little Children foul offence;
'Twere better their base necks a millstone bore,
Plung'd in deep seas amidst wild billows roar!
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CHAPTER 6th.
The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse | |