Classic Poem

If black doom by desert should go,
Then, Lord; my due desert is death;
Which robs from souls immortal joy,
And from their bodies mortal breath.

But in so great a Saviour,
Can e'er so base a worm's annoy
Add any glory to thy power,
Or any gladdness to thy joy?

Thou justly mayst me doom to death,
And everlasting flames of fire;
But on a wretch to pour thy wrath
Can ever sure be worth thine ire.

Since Jesus the atonement was,
Let tender mercy me release;
Let him be umpire of my cause,
And pass the gladsome doom of peace.

Let grace forgive, and love forget
My base, my vile apostacy;
And temper thy deserved hate
With love and mercy toward me.

The ruffling winds and raging blasts
Hold me in constant cruel chase;
They break my anchors, sails and masts,
Allowing no reposing place.

The boist'rous seas with swelling floods,
On ev'ry side against me fight.
Heav'n, overcast with stormy clouds,
Dim's all the planet's guiding light,

The hellish furies lie in wait
To win my soul into their pow'r;
To make me bite at ev'ry bait,
And thus my killing bane devour.

I lie enchain'd in sin and thrall,
Next border unto black despair;
Till grace restore, and of my fall
The doleful ruins all repair.

My hov'ring thoughts would flee to glore,
And nestle safe above the sky;
Fain would my tumbling ship ashore
At that sure anchor quiet lie.

But mounting thoughts are haled down
With heavy poise of corrupt load;
And blust'ring storms deny with frown
An harbour of secure abode.

To drown the weight that wakes the blast,
Thy sin subduing grace afford
The storm might cease, could I but cast
This troublous Jonah overboard.

Base flesh, with fleshly pleasures gain'd,
Sweet grace's kindly suit declines;
When mercy courts me for its friend,
Anon my sordid flesh repines.

Soar up, my soul, to Tabor hill,
Cast off this loathsome pressing load;
Long is the date of thine exile,
While absent from the Lord, thy God.

Dote not on earthly weeds and toys,
Which do not, cannot suit thy taste;
The flow'rs of everlasting joys
Grow up apace for thy repast.

Sith that the glorious God above
In Jesus bears a love to thee;
How base, how brutish is thy love
Of any being less than he?

Who for thy love did choose thy grief,
Content in love to live and die:
Who lov'd thy love more than his life,
And with his life thy love did buy.

Since then the God of richest love
With thy poor love enamour'd is:
How high a crime will thee reprove,
If not enamour'd deep with his?

Since on the verdant field of grace
His love does thine so hot pursue;
Let love meet love with chaste embrace,
Thy mite a thousand-fold is due.

Rise, love, thou early heav'n, and sing,
Young little dawn of endless day:
I'll on the mounting fiery wing
In joyful raptures melt away.