Divine desire, that holy flame Thy grace creates in me; This heart, a fountain of vile thoughts, While self upon the surface floats, Let others in the gaudy dress The Lord shall be my righteousness, The Lord for ever mine. XII. EPHRAIM REPENTING. Jer. xxxi. 18-20. My God, till I received thy stroke, How like a beast was I! So unaccustom❜d to the yoke, So backward to comply. With grief my just reproach I bear, Thy merciful restraint 1 scorn'd, "Is Ephraim banish'd from my thoughts, Or vile in my esteem? No," saith the Lord, "with all his faults, I still remember him. "Is he a dear and pleasant child? My sharp rebuke has laid him low, My pity kindles at his woe, He shall not seek in vain." XIII. THE COVENANT, Ezek. xxxvi. 25-28. THE Lord proclaims his grace abroad! My grace, a flowing stream, proceeds My truth the great design ensures, Yet not unsought, or unimplored, No your whole hearts shall seek the Lord, From the first breath of life divine, The gracious work shall all be mine, XIV. JEHOVAH-SHAMMAH. Ezek. xlviii. 35. As birds their infant brood protect,† And spread their wings to shelter them, Thus saith the Lord to his elect, "So will I guard Jerusalem." And what then is Jerusalem, Jehovah founded it in blood, The blood of his incarnate Son; There, though besieged on every side, * Verse 37. + Isaiah xxxi. 5. Let earth repent, and hell despair, Her name is call'd, The Lord is there, And who has power to drive him thence? XV. PRAISE FOR THE FOUNTAIN OPENED. Zec. xiii. 1. THERE is a fountain fill'd with blood The dying thief rejoiced to see That fountain in his day;. Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream Then in a nobler, sweeter song, I'll sing thy power to save; When this poor lisping stammering tongue Lies silent in the grave. Lord, I believe thou hast prepared For me a blood-bought free reward, 'Tis strung, and tuned, for endless years, And form'd by power divine, To sound in God the Father's ears No other name but thine. XVI. THE SOWER. Matt. xiii. 3. YE sons of earth, prepare the plough, The seed that finds a stony soil, Soon wither'd, scorch'd, and dead. The thorny ground is sure to baulk The beaten path and highway side The watchful birds the spoil divide, |