BAXTER's· POEMs. 33 That all who are not saints, are worse than·brutes. These, 0 my father! where thy rod's first-fruits. 0 my .dear God! how precious is thy-love! Thus we rebound up to the joys .above. Long thus before my God I lay prostrate-, Begging for healing mercy at his gate ! And for some longer time, to know his truth, And not unripe to wither in my youth ! I begg'd that hasty death he would delay, And would not snatch me unprepared. away. I promised his mercies to rehearse, If he the dreadful sentence would reverse. Could I have hoped for Hezekiah1s years, I should no more than he, have spared tears. Yet hath thy mercy granted me since then, More than thrice five, yea more than four times ten. My moan thou pity'dst, and my cries didst hear: Delaying death ; not taking off my fear : The threat'ning malady thou didst abate; And into many others didst translate; Which gave me hope of some preparing space, But none that earth would prove a resting place; Appointing me to serve in gentle chains, In wholesome sickness, and in healing pains! So great as might my headstrong thoughts restraju, . From rum~.ing after things .terrene and ·vain. Yet were they not so great as to make less, l\'Iy service, or my sober cheerfulness: 0 what a happy mixture didst thou make! How meet a course did thy wise mercy take! This was the pregnant blessing, kept for store, 'Vhich multiplied into a thousand more! c2
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTcyMjk=