168 BAXTER'S POEMS. Then let not brutish flesh, Fright and deceive thee. Gladly my soul go forth ; Is Heaven of no more worth, Than this curst desert is, This world of trouble? Prefer eternal bliss, Before this bubble. Wish not still for delay. Why wcmld.st theu longer stay From Christ, from hope so far, In self-denial: And live in longer war, A life of trial ? Souls live when flesh lies dead : Thy si-n is pardoned, . When Christ doth death disarm, Why art thou fearful? And souls that fear no harm, Should pass forth cheerful. Cherish not causeless doubt, That God will shut thee out : What if he thee assur'd From Heav'n by letter ? His Son, his Spirit, and Word, Have done it better. Hath mercy made life sweet ? And is it kind and meet, Thus to draw back from God, Who doth protect thee ?
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