Classic Poem

For the year 1793

H E lives who lives to God alone,
And all are dead beside;
For other source than God is none
Whence life can be supplied.

To live to God, is to requite
His love as best we may;
To make his precepts our delight,
His promises our stay.

But life, within a narrow ring
Of giddy joys compriz'd,
Is falsely nam'd, and no such thing,
But rather death disguis'd.

Can life in them deserve the name,
Who only live to prove
For what poor toys they can disclaim
An endless life above?

Who, much diseas'd, yet nothing feel,
Much menac'd, nothing dread;
Have wounds which only God can heal,
Yet never ask his aid?

Who deem his house an useless place,
Faith, want of common sense;
And ardour in the Christian race
An hypocrite's pretence?

Who trample order, and the day
Which God asserts his own,
Dishonour with unhallow'd play,
And worship chance alone?

If scorn of God's commands, impress'd
On word and deed, imply
The better part of man unbless'd
With life that cannot die,

Such want it; and that want, uncur'd
Till man resigns his breath,
Speaks him a criminal, assur'd
Of everlasting death.

Sad period to a pleasant course!
Yet so will God repay
Sabbaths profan'd without remorse,
And mercy cast away.