O purer years of light and grace! The diff'rence is great as the space 'Twixt you and us, who blindly run After false fires, and leave the sun. Is not fair Nature of herself Much richer than dull paint or pelf? And are not streams at the spring-head More sweet than in carv'd stone or lead? But fancy and some artist's tools Frame a religion for fools. The truth, which once was plainly taught, With thorns and briars now is fraught. Some part is with bold fables spotted, Some by strange comments wildly blotted; And Discord--old Corruption's crest-- With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest. So snow, which in its first descents A whiteness, like pure Heav'n, presents, When touch'd by man is quickly soil'd, And after, trodden down and spoil'd. O lead me, where I may be free In truth and spirit to serve Thee! Where undisturb'd I may converse With Thy great Self; and there rehearse Thy gifts with thanks; and from Thy store, Who art all blessings, beg much more. Give me the wisdom of the bee, And her unwearied industry! That from the wild gourds of these days, I may extract health, and Thy praise, Who canst turn darkness into light, And in my weakness show Thy might. Suffer me not in any want To seek refreshment from a plant Thou didst not set; since all must be Pluck'd up, whose growth is not from Thee. 'Tis not the garden, and the bow'rs, Nor sense and forms, that give to flow'rs Their wholesomeness, but Thy good will, Which truth and pureness purchase still. Then since corrupt man hath driv'n hence Thy kind and saving influence, And balm is no more to be had In all the coasts of Gilead; Go with me to the shade and cell, Where Thy best servants once did dwell. There let me know Thy will, and see Exil'd Religion own'd by Thee; For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls, And make hills blossom like the vales; Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs, And fresh delights for all sad hours; Till from them, like a laden bee, I may fly home, and hive with Thee TO CHRISTIAN RELIGION.