BAXTER'S POEM's. 125 Now the mad prodigal comes to himself, Perhaps the world doth him its husks deny. Why, saith he, did I leave a father's house? There none do want; here I must starve and d.ie. 0 that I had not tasted Satan's bait, Nor pamper'd flesh, and pleased vain appetite, Neglected grace, and things of greater weight, Nor meddled with sin's poisonous delight! But the time lost can never be recall'd, The works of madness cannot be undone ; I have undone myself; is there no help? I know all else is vain; there is but one. A father's love affordeth me some hope, The world gives none: I must return or die; I '11 go, and humbly all my sin confess, And cast myself upon his clemency. But God is just and holy: how can I, Defil'd with sin. and guilt, stand in his sight? Now the sick soul a sure physician needs, There is one Saviour', who is God's. delight. He is the way, by.whom men come to God, He is the truth, to save the world from error; He is the life, to save from endless death Self-murdering souls, subject to Hellish terror. And now the gospel's better understood; Redemption seemeth not a needless thing; His thoughts are precious of Christ's precious blood, His mediator, prophet, priest, and king. The gospel now is tidings of great joy, Pardon of sin, adoption, peace with God,
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTcyMjk=