XX. Consolations of Baptism.
O Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself, but in me is thy help.
Brightly the morn of our New Birth arose
From the Baptismal Fount, in awful trance
Unveiling half her glorious countenance;—
We turn'd to our own dreams, wooing Earth's woes,
And slumber'd. Haply now ere Ev'ning's close
We wake, and o'er us see a pitying glance,
The heavenly morn gone by, day in advance,
And far away the towers of our repose.
We doubt the title soil'd by sinful stain,
And of our birthright ask some sign again,
Such is distrust, of Sin the penalty!
Oh! rather, when thy knees sink on the plain,
Rise, and look back on that Egyptian sea,
And doubt no more the arm that set thee free.
