BAXTER's ·POEMS. Since then, I lived between thy book and rod; And in thy school of discipline abode: Sometimes thy gentle twigs touch'd but the skin; Sometimes thy sharper strokes did enter in: Most of them fell but on my outward part: llutnowthey pierce, they wound, they kill my heart. Spare Lord! I ·sigh, I groan, I weep, I cry! 0 spare! before I bleed, I sink, I die! 0 spar~ the heart! or wound none but mine· own ! And let me sigh, and weep, and mourn alone l It's I that sinn'd: these sheep what have they done? I sinn'd but with one heart: 0 break but one! Shall I. that have extoll'd thy people's joys, And told them of the sweetness of thy ways ; ' Now by my plaints and dolor make them think, Thou giv.'st us gall and vinegar to drink? Set me not as a spectacle of wrath, To frighten corners from the holy path. Be silent, flesh ! my God is wise and just; Hast thou not sinned? stoop and kiss the ·dust. If passion did not blind thee., thou might'st see, .Justice is good, even when it falls on thee. It is not causeless, if he pierce the heart : He doth but choose the foul, the guilty part. Had not the door been open'd first to sin, Terrors and sorrows could not have got in : If it have room for thoughts of pride and lust; That trouble should dwell with them, is but just. Where should the tent be put, but in the wound ? We cleanse the ulcerous parts, and not the sound,_ Where should Jehovah's battering cannons play, But at the fortress where his enemy lay? ,
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