BAXTER'S POEMS. 11wugh sin and death conspire, To rob thee of thy praise, Still towards ~hee I '11 aspire, And thou dull hearts canst raise . Open thy door; And when grim death Shall stop this breath , I '11 praise thee more. With thy tri}lmphant flock, Then I shall number'd be, Built on th' eternal rock, His glory we shall see. The Heav'ns so high , With praise shall ring, And all shall sing, In harmony. The SJln is but a spark, From the eternal light : Its brightest beams are dark, To that most glorious sight : There the whole choir, With one accord, Shall praise the Lord For evermore. THE COMPLAINT. WHAT mean impatient men to call it pain ? 'lnat do the creature's wrath alone sustain? But, alas! how much greater is my woe, That must God's sharp displeasure undergo?
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