The heaven of heavens desist from their lour, The kingdom of heaven is taken by pow'r, He's led to the Rock by omnipotent hand; The voice of the turtle is heard in the land, My God, in compassion, did sweetly appear, I thought all the angels stood silent to hear, I wept with rejoicing, and sung in my grief; I coily refused his gracious relief, But he made all my bowels to move. All nature look'd gay, and afforded delight, I yielded my soul as a captive to grace, My jealousy fled, and my mind was compos'd, I us'd my entreaties his bowels to move, And gently I woo'd him, and call'd him my love, Thro' each silent watch still my bed he would keep, My mind he employ'd when I sunk in a sleep, I thought of his birth-was amaz'd at the seheme, While Faith was triumphant with palms; And wonder'd my God and my Maker supreme, As an infant, should live upon alms! His wearisome journies by faith I could trace, The truths he then taught he would freely rehearse, The supper I view'd when the table was spread, And I thought, as a guest, I was nigh; And, when he foretold that he must be betray'd, I replied, "O Lord, is it I?" But, when I beheld him as rack'd on the cross, I found for some minutes my senses were lost, I wonder'd to see such a victim appear, But when on his throne I perceiv'd him supreme, With his garments all cover'd with gore; I said, "He hath finish'd the tragical scene, "And my Saviour can suffer no more!" he nature of angels was never so high, As with crown and with sceptre to reign; he seraphic host, who inhabit the sky, Must adore and attend as his train. The wondering millions all cast off their crowns, The brilliant, seraphic, and ransomed race, Appear in majestic array; While Jesus emits, from the rays of his face, The perpetual springing of day. They shine in his glory, and bask in his beams; While Immanuel smiles on his wife, And leads her by pleasure's unchangeable streams, Which flow from the Fountain of Life. O, when shall I join the harmonious throng! But I must withdraw from this ravishing scene, I gradually sunk from the views of the Mount, Let weeping, and mourning, and sorrow, be gone; For Jesus, the head, hath ascended his throne, Thrice happy the soul that has God for his sire, Who inwardly burns with that hallowed fire, Let such with submission their station abide, C |