g4 BAXTER'S POEMS. I'll put a tender heart into thy breast: Believe in me, and I '11 forgive the rest. It is no mortal hardness, if thou choose My covenant; and dost not me refuse. Should'st thou but fully feel thy sin, thou'dst die : None could sustain so great a load but I. - I felt it for thee: leave it to·my care, To wound or heal; to break, afflict, or spare. Sinner. My sin, my wants, my misery is such, trhat I can never feel and grieve too much. [of sin: Je8U8. Such breaking's good as breaks the heart And maketlt way·for.love to enter in. "But not ~he grief that only breaketh ease, Weak'ning the soul, .and strength'ning the disease. Hinder not love and joy ; but grieve in measure: My blood, and not thy tears, must be thy treasure . Sinner. Indeed my purest streams are too impure: And cannot thy severity endure. The grief of an impatient selfish spirit, Cannot thy pardon or acceptance merit. But if this harden'd heart do not relent, And so great sin and misery lament, How canst thou smile on such a brazen face, As never felt the want and :worth of grace?. [hear, J~s. Whence do I this complaining language If neither want nor worth of grace appear? I '11 save thee', if but so far thou repent, As to my Gospel-covenant to consent. Wilt thou be healed? truly say, I will, Arid trust the cure on thy physician's skill.{be free, Sinner. 0 there's my sin and. woe! though grace I cannot take thy grace, or come to thee.
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