 | Divine poems |  |
16
A Foule Morning; or, The Young Converts Doubts, &c.
Help thou mine Unbelief.
Mark 9. 24.
Help Master of my Faith! I'm forc'd to Winke
At this Bright Truth! in these great Depths I Sink!
O! 'tis beyond my reach, I cannot Tread:
Nor can I Swimme unless thou Hold my Head!
My Reason's at a stand! Thus are Thy Wayes
Past finding out! How Dazling are Thy Rayes
(O SUN of RIGHTEOUSNESS) to Humane Sight?
Like Thy Great Convert, I can't See for Light!
Thou Shin'dst about me, and I straight was Blinde!
On Thee I thought, and straight I lost my Minde!
Stretcht out to compass Thy Vast Truths, it broke!
My Hot Zeal Flash't, and so it turn'd to Smoke!
My Joyes are chang'd to Doubts and Fears, which roul
Like stormy Billowes in my Wav'ring Soul!
Shine forth my SUN amidst these Showers of Tears,
Let thy Clear Beams pierce through these Clouds of Fears!
Shew me Thy Hidden Manna! Angels Food!
I long to Tast and See that thou art Good?
I'm Come to See Thee LORD, though Vile, and Poor,
O let me in! Ile die else at thy Door!
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