78 BAXTER'S POEMS. How. ran that Saviour be against my good, That died in love, and wash'd me by his blood? . ~an the same voice now pass so sad a doom, That from my sin so lately call'd me home? Wilt thou now frown me down to fears and death, That lately gav'st me a new life and breath ? Or can that hand that snatch'd me from the flame Tear me, and cast me back into the same? Pity, my God, this sinking trembling soul, And let the hand that wounds me, make me whole: Friends •:would, but cannot; all their help is vain: But thou canst quickly give me joy for pain. • What can friends do, but make my grief their own? A.nd will not give fne leave to die alone. They can but add their fruitless tears and moans; 'To join in a sad concert with my groans. 'Their pity doth but make my wounds more deep vVhile in compassion they stand by and weep : 'rhrough me thou woundest them: my pains are theirs, . And every tender friend a portion bears. They can but pray for that which thou must give ; · They strive in vain if thou wilt not relieve. ~ spare me, Lord ! and press me not too low, Lest I should peevish and impatient grow! Lest I should have unworthy thougl}ts of thee, F01·getting what thy love hath done for me. Lest blind distrust get ground against my faith, And I grow mindless what thy promise saith. Lest griefs consume the soul which thou hast tnade, And lest thy praises with my comforts fade.
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