The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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THE CONSECRATION OF ST PAUL'S
CHURCH, SHIPLEY. |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
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THE CONSECRATION OF ST PAUL'S CHURCH, SHIPLEY.
How can a sinner dare to sing the praise
Of Him on whom e'en seraphs cannot gaze,
Whose glory shines in ev'ry varied place,
Throughout infinity—unbounded space!
Who formed the hills, who arched the azure sky—
The king of undescribed eternity:
Yet, let my heart with trembling rapture glow,
My tears for all His by-past mercies flow,
That yet I live, that yet He gives me breath,
And saves a sinner from deserved death.
Oh! let my heart be tuned, the praise to sing
Of man's great Saviour! heaven's eternal King!
The universe His glorious temple is,
His secret place the heavens—the seat of bliss;
But that great God who all the world commands,
Stoops down to dwell in temples made with hands,
Accepts the breathings of the contrite breast,
Relieves the burdened, gives the weary rest.
He hears each humble sound poor mortals make,
Though His own choir the heaven of heavens can shake!
Of Him on whom e'en seraphs cannot gaze,
Whose glory shines in ev'ry varied place,
Throughout infinity—unbounded space!
Who formed the hills, who arched the azure sky—
The king of undescribed eternity:
Yet, let my heart with trembling rapture glow,
My tears for all His by-past mercies flow,
That yet I live, that yet He gives me breath,
And saves a sinner from deserved death.
Oh! let my heart be tuned, the praise to sing
Of man's great Saviour! heaven's eternal King!
The universe His glorious temple is,
His secret place the heavens—the seat of bliss;
But that great God who all the world commands,
Stoops down to dwell in temples made with hands,
Accepts the breathings of the contrite breast,
Relieves the burdened, gives the weary rest.
He hears each humble sound poor mortals make,
Though His own choir the heaven of heavens can shake!
How grand the sight! how beautiful to view
The thousands thronging round the churches new;
To see the colours waving on the wind,
The great Archbishop with his flock behind;
To hear the new, the dulcet virgin chime,
Which brings to mind the day of olden time!
The lame are seen with crutches halt along,
The old, the blind, are mingled with the throng;
E'en those who think another creed is right,
Press on the way, to see the noble sight.
'Twas thus, when Fountain's lofty pile of old,
Was opened with the priests adorned in gold;
When all the pomp of ages long gone by,
Burst in magnificence upon each eye.
The grounds of Studley were with people spread,
When the Archbishop first at Fountain said:
“Lift up your heads, ye gates! eternal doors,
Ascend! for God is come—that God is ours!
Who is the Lord?” then burst the mighty song,
“The God of battle, terrible and strong!
He comes! He comes! adorned with power and love,
Ye gates, arise! ye heavenly portals, move!”
The chorus bursts—His praises sound aloud,
And God descends to bless the list'ning crowd.
Whatever other sects shall please to say,
Here let poor mortals find the heavenly way,
Till moss grows on the tow'r, or on the walls,
And each fine antiquated column falls;
Here may discordant sects unite to raise
Loud anthems to their Heavenly Father's praise;
Before His throne in meek submission fall,
And each one strive to crown Him Lord of all!
Let party zeal be banished from each mind,
And all to holiness alone inclined;
Let none in wild and scornful ecstasy,
Cry out—“The temple of the Lord are we!”
But charity let each meek pastor teach,
And love to God and man undaunted preach;
Let servile fear be driven from his breast,
And ever on his Saviour's promise rest:
“Lo! I am with thee always, to defend
And bless the Gospel, till each rebel bend.”
The thousands thronging round the churches new;
214
The great Archbishop with his flock behind;
To hear the new, the dulcet virgin chime,
Which brings to mind the day of olden time!
The lame are seen with crutches halt along,
The old, the blind, are mingled with the throng;
E'en those who think another creed is right,
Press on the way, to see the noble sight.
'Twas thus, when Fountain's lofty pile of old,
Was opened with the priests adorned in gold;
When all the pomp of ages long gone by,
Burst in magnificence upon each eye.
The grounds of Studley were with people spread,
When the Archbishop first at Fountain said:
“Lift up your heads, ye gates! eternal doors,
Ascend! for God is come—that God is ours!
Who is the Lord?” then burst the mighty song,
“The God of battle, terrible and strong!
He comes! He comes! adorned with power and love,
Ye gates, arise! ye heavenly portals, move!”
The chorus bursts—His praises sound aloud,
And God descends to bless the list'ning crowd.
Whatever other sects shall please to say,
Here let poor mortals find the heavenly way,
Till moss grows on the tow'r, or on the walls,
And each fine antiquated column falls;
Here may discordant sects unite to raise
Loud anthems to their Heavenly Father's praise;
215
And each one strive to crown Him Lord of all!
Let party zeal be banished from each mind,
And all to holiness alone inclined;
Let none in wild and scornful ecstasy,
Cry out—“The temple of the Lord are we!”
But charity let each meek pastor teach,
And love to God and man undaunted preach;
Let servile fear be driven from his breast,
And ever on his Saviour's promise rest:
“Lo! I am with thee always, to defend
And bless the Gospel, till each rebel bend.”
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |