WHEN the fierce North-wind with his airy forces
Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury;
the red lightning with a storm of hail comes
Rushing amain down;
How the poor sailors stand amazed and tremble,
While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody
Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters
Quick to devour them.
Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder
(If things eternal may be like these earthly),
the dire terror when the great Archangel
Shakes the creation;
Tears the strong pillars of the vault of Heaven,
Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes,
the graves open, and the bones arising,
Flames all around them.
Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches!
Lively bright horror and amazing anguish
thro their eyelids, while the living worm lies
Gnawing within them.
Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings,
And the smart twinges, when the
eye beholds the
Lofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance
Rolling afore him.
Hopeless immortals! how they scream and shiver,
While devils push them to the pit wide-
Hideous and gloomy, to receive them headlong
Down to the centre!
Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horrid
Doleful ideas!) come, arise to Jesus,
How He sits
God-like! and the saints around Him
Throned, yet adoring!
O may I sit there when He comes triumphant,
Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory,
our Hosannas all along the passage
Shout the Redeemer!
HUSH! my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without
Gently falling on thy head.
Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy
care or payment:
All thy wants are well supplied.
How much better thourt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven He descended
became a child like thee!
Soft and easy is thy cradle:
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When His birthplace was a stable
His softest bed was hay.
Blessàd babe! what glorious features
Spotless fair, divinely bright!
Must He dwell with brutal
How could angels bear the sight?
Was there nothing but a manger
Cursàd sinners could afford
To receive the heavenly stranger?
they thus affront their Lord?
Soft, my child: I did not chide thee,
Though my song might sound too hard;
Tis thy mother sits
And her arms shall be thy guard.
Yet to read the shameful story
How the Jews abused their King,
How they served the Lord of
Makes me angry while I sing.
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