BAXTER'S POEMS. Where 1 may die alive, and live in death; And spend in lamentation all my breath. Seei~g deceitful, heart-tormenting sin So cunningly is crept and woven in: Break it in pieces, turn this heart to dust; Melt out the dross ; purge out the filth and rust. Spare not the lance: or if that will do good, Drench it in tears : stop not this brinish flood ! 91. Jesus. Peace, troubled soul! J 'll wash it in my blood. Woman, why weepest thou? was the first word, After his rising, spoken by our Lord, To which his angel's preface did accord.«- THE RELIEF. Jesus. PEACE troubled soul! it's not thy brinish flood, r Nor troubli~g passions that must do thee good: Come! freely drink, and bathe thee in this blood. Sinner. What I? so vile a wretch! it cannot be! Alas ! I fear it was not shed for me ! Jesus. Yea, e'en for thee: so far 'twas shed for all, That they may come and welcome, at my call. Sinner. Alas, Lord ! I have trampled on thy blood , And thyreproofs and calls of grace withstood. Jesus. And yet I call thee: take my mercy yet : I '11 answer for thee: I have paid thy debt. * John xx. 13, 15.
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