Classic Poem

But after all, the bride's so malcontent,
No argument, save pow'r, is prevalent,
To bow her will, and gain her heart's consent
The glorious Prince's suit she disapproves,
The law her old primordal husband loves;
Hopeful in its embraces life to have,
Though dead and bury'd in her suitor's grave,
Unable to give life, as once before;
Unfit to be a husband any more.
Yet proudly she the new address disdains,
And all the blest Redeemer's love and pains;
Tho' now his head, that cruel thorns did wound,
Is with immortal glory circled round:
Archangels at his awful footstool bow,
Tho' down he sends in gospel tidings good
Epistles of his love, sign'd with his blood:
Yet lordly she the royal suit rejects,
Eternal life by legal works affects;
In vain the living seeks among the dead,
Sues quick'ning comforts in a killing head.
Her dead and bury'd husband has her heart,
Which can nor death remove, nor life impart,
Thus all revolting Adam's blinded race
In their first spouse their hope and comfort place.
They natively expect, if guilt them press,
Salvation by a home bred righteousness:
They look for favour in Jehovah's eyes,
By careful doing all that in them lies.
'Tis still their primary attempt to draw
Their life and comfort from the vet'ran law:
They flee not to the hope the gospel gives:
To trust a promise bare, their minds aggrieves,
Which judge the man that does, the man that lives.
As native as they draw their vital breath,
Their fond recourse is to the legal path,
Why, says old nature in law wedded man,
“Won't Heav'n be pleas'd, if I do all I can?
If I conform my walk to Nature's light,
And strive, intent to practise what is right?
Thus, won't I by the God of heav'n be bless'd,
And win his favour, if I do my best?
Good God! he cries when press'd with debt and thrall,
Have patience, with me, and I'll pay thee all.”
Upon their all, their best, they're fondly mad,
Tho' yet their all is naught, their best is bad.
Proud man his can does mightily exalts,
Yet are his brightest works but splendid faults.
A sinner may have shows of good, but still
The best he can, even at his best, is ill.
Can heav'n or divine favour e'er be win
By those that are a mass of hell and sin?
The righteous law does num'rous woes denounce
Against the wretched soul that fails but once:
What heaps of curses on their heads it rears,
That have amass'd the guilt of num'rous years.