Then a glance in helpless sorrow Turned I to the central throne,-- There I saw the Mediator Who for my life gave his own. "There is He," I faintly whispered, "Read I not upon His face, That his heart is full of pity, Full, to sinful worms, of grace?" Then I drew unto his footstool, Prostrate fell before his seat; And I pleaded for his favour; Pointing to his hands and feet: "I will pour," I said, "my sorrow And my need into his ear, All my grief I will unbosom: It is Jesus, need I fear!" Then while I a bosom opened, Full of darkness, want and sin, He a bosom full of mercy Opened to receive me in: Those kind hands which once were piercèd, Reached he forth to raise my head:-- From that all-transporting moment All my hopeless longings fled. XVII. A FAREWELL. Fly, Earth's gaudy, fading trifles; Empty joys, no longer stay: Stand aside, vain schemes of profit: Gay companions, speed away! I depart, the Bridegroom cometh; I dare sport with you no more, But would with the wise now ready Enter ere He close the door. Come, ye thoughtless, enter with me, Flee, while Mercy saith there's room: Flee, before the storm o'ertake you: Flee, ere your destruction come: Swiftly speeds the dread avenger, Swiftly speeds the judgement hour; Speed we to the refuge swiftly, While we have an open door. XVIII. THE UNSEEN. Though unseen, O Lord, I love Thee, Wondrous is thy saving might, Thus to wean my soul so sweetly From its sinful chief delight: More Thou didst in one short instant Than a world could e'er have done, Winning Thee a happy dwelling In this sterile heart of stone. XIX. HOLY WONDER. Strange that I am not cut down Without mercy, To endure thy righteous frown, Beyond pity! That on earth I still survive I will praise Thee-- To thy praise and glory live, Who hath spared me. Strange Thou shouldst have looked on me-- Worthless, guilty: Who can count my debt to Thee, Lord, most holy? If I reach thy heavenly seat, Songs unceasing Shall my raptured tongue repeat-- Thee adoring. XX. OUT OF THE DUST. Lord, hear my cry and see my case, As hart for streams I pant for grace: Come, O my God, bear me above, To bathe my wounds in thy blest love. Are there not myriads now in bliss, Whose cry on earth was often this? Here in the dust how deep their groans, But now they sit on glorious thrones.