Baxter - HP PR3316 .B36 1821

BAXTER'S POEMS. 147 Thus life is fool'd away, till death seem near, Which doth disrobe their splendid, cheating sins, But to ease conscience weaken'd now by fear, Forced penitence man's absolution wins. And at the grave, when men as bad as he, Do hear that God in mercy took his soul ; And charity for this hope pleaded be, [whole. False hopes which should be broken, are kept Thus sinners are befool'd till time is done, From first to last spent in hypocrisy; And endless sorrows when all hope is gone, Tell them what mercy they did long deny. Yet still the reverend Masters of the game, Cherish the malady with zeal and art; Being themselves diseased by the same, · By mortal habit both of head and heart. Tradition, ceremony, pomp, and rule, A human image without divine life; By Pharisees was used as a tool, Of self-deceit, and of malignant strife. Dead saints they honoued, and the living kill'd, The dead molest them not by their reproofs ; Their relics, days, and monuttlents·, they held, In their devotion as of great behoof. Yet nene were fiercer enemies of Christ, Nor did his truth and servants more oppose ; None with more zeal for holy blood did thirst, None did more mischief to the church than those. Wolves in sheep's clothing, bytheirfruits are known, By hurtful fangs, devouring bloody jaws,