174 BAXTER'S. POEMS. He loves tl}is world of strife, Hates that would mend it; Loves death that's called life, Fears what would end it. All that is good he'd crush, Blindly on sin cloth rush, A pricking thorny bush, Such Christ was crown'd with: Their worship's like to this, The reed, the Judas kiss, Such the religion is, That these abound wi~h ; . They mock Christ with the knee Whene'er they bow it; As if God diq not see The heart, and know it. Of good they choose the least, Despise that which is best, The joyful, heavenly feast, Which Christ would give them ; Heav'n bath scarce one cold wish, They live unto the flesh, Like swine they feed on wash, Satan cloth drive them. Like weeds they grow in mire, Which vices nourish ; Where warm'd by Satan's fire, All sins do flourish. Is this the world men choose, For which they Heav'n refuse, And Christ and grace abuse, And not receive it?