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When Gideon arm'd his numerous host,
The Lord soon made his numbers less; And said, “ Lest Israel vainly boast, *
My arm procured me this success.
And draw our ebbing comforts low,
not claim the praise we owe.
TRUE AND FALSE COMFORTS.
O God, whose favourable
Thy shining presence gives.
Who with a graceless heart
Prepared by Satan's art.
Who, while they boast their light,
Are plunging into night.
They sin and yet rejoice;
Judges vii. 2.
Be mine the comforts that reclaim
power; That make me blush for what I am,
And hate my sin the more.
At thy dear feet to lie ;
And none can higher fly.
A LIVING AND A DEAD FAITH.
The Lord receives his highest praise
From humble minds and hearts sincere ; While all the loud professor says
Offends the righteous Judge's ear.
To mark the precepts' holy light,
Show who are pleasing in his sight.
To purchase pardon for his own; Nor will a soul by grace restored
Return the Saviour words alone. With golden bells, the priestly vest,
And rich pomegranates border'd round,* The need of holiness express'd,
And call'd for fruit as well as sound.
* Exod. xxviii. 33.
Easy, indeed, it were to reach
A mansion in the courts above, If swelling words and fluent speech
Might serve instead of faith and love. But none shall gain the blissful place,
Or God's unclouded glory see, Who talks of free and sovereign grace, Unless that
has made him free!
Too many, Lord, abuse thy grace
In this licentious day;
They turn their own away.
That can the blind restore;
And blinded still the more.
They do not beg, but steal ; And when they plead it at thy throne,
Oh! where's the Spirit's seal ?
The dear Redeemer bled ?
From Christ the living head?
Ah, Lord, we know thy chosen few
Are fed with heavenly fare ;
Proclaim them what they are.
Is not to live in sin ;
What thousands never knew the road !
What thousands hate it when 'tis known ! None but the chosen tribes of God
Will seek or choose it for their own. A thousand ways in ruin end,
One only leads to joys on high; By that my willing steps ascend,
Pleased with a journey to the sky. No more I ask or hope to find
Delight or happiness below;
the mind That feeds where thorns and thistles grow. The joy that fades is not for me,
I seek immortal joys above ;. There glory without end shall be
The bright reward of faith and love.
Cleave to the world,
sordid worms, Contented lick
native dust; But God shall fight, with all his storms,
Against the idol of your trust.
To keep the lamp alive,
With oil we fill the bowl; 'Tis water makes the willow thrive,
And grace that feeds the soul.
Supplies the living stream;
But still derived from him.
Nor confidently say,
But,“ Grant I never may.”
His strength in God alone;
Who trusted in his own. Retreat beneath his wings, And in his
confide; This more exalts the King of kings +
Than all your works beside. * Matthew xxvi. 33.
+ John vi. 29.