The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. Containing, besides his Sermons, and Essays on miscellaneous subjects, several additional pieces, Selected from his Manuscripts by the Rev. Dr. Jennings, and the Rev. Dr. Doddridge, in 1753: to which are prefixed, memoirs of the life of the author, compiled by the Rev. George Burder. In six volumes |
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Converse with Christ.
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 | The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. |  |
Converse with Christ.
I
I'm tir'd with visits, modes, and forms,And flatteries made to fellow-worms:
Their conversation cloys;
Their vain amours, and empty stuff:
But I can ne'er enjoy enough
Of thy best company, my Lord, thou life of all my joys.
II
When he begins to tell his love,Thro' ev'ry vein my passions move,
The captive of his tongue:
In midnight shades, on frosty ground,
I could attend the pleasing sound,
Nor should I feel December cold, nor think the darkness long.
III
There, while I hear my Saviour-GodCount o'er the sins (a heavy load)
He bore upon the tree,
Inward I blush with secret shame,
And weep, and love, and bless the name
That knew not guilt nor grief his own, but bare it all for me.
IV
Next he describes the thorns he wore,And talks his bloody passions o'er,
Till I am drown'd in tears:
Yet with the sympathetic smart
There's a strange joy beats round my heart;
The cursed tree has blessings in't, my sweetest balm it bears.
V
I hear the glorious Sufferer tell,How on his cross he vanquish'd hell,
And all the powers beneath;
Transported and inspir'd, my tongue
Attempts his triumphs in a song:
‘How has the serpent lost his sting, and where's thy victory, death?’
VI
But when he shows his hands and heart,With those dear prints of dying smart,
He sets my soul on fire:
Not the beloved John could rest
With more delight upon that breast,
Nor Thomas pry into those wounds with more intense desire.
VII
Kindly he opens me his ear,And bids me pour my sorrow there,
And tell him all my pains:
Thus while I ease my burden'd heart,
In ev'ry woe he bears a part,
His arms embrace me, and his hand my drooping head sustains.
VIII
Fly from my thoughts, all human things,And sporting swains, and fighting kings,
And tales of wanton love:
My soul disdains that little snare
The tangles of Amira's hair:
Thine arms, my God, are sweeter bands, nor can my heart remove.
| The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. | |