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Thy rills of grace to me return,
And own their springs in me:
With tribute to the sea.
The Church's Words.
Verse 16. | Awake, 0 north wind; and come, tbou
, South ; blow upon my garden, ibat the Spices thereof may flow out : let my Beloved some into bis gard. en, and eat bis pleasant fruiis.
In ample praise, my King, I hear,
Makes worthless me his theme;
I sink to dust for shame.
On mites his picture draws;
His subject of applause.
On thee the praise must land:
Plants of thy mighty hand.
And deign'st thus to command,
And on thy breath depend.
They cease to bud or flow,
Unless thy Spirit blow.
Excite the spicy vale;
A rousing, quick’ning gale.
Pour grace and gifts abroad;
A layour sweet to God.
Sharp gales from chilling north command,
To rouse the feeds of grace :
Till spices flow apace.
Blow a new Penticost :
Know there's a Holy Ghost.
And spread his area broad
Most grateful to my God.
The life, the fap, the root:
From whom is all the fruit.
Come bring thy pleasant treat;
And toil with bloody fweat.
Am I the garden Heav'n can own,
Where living waters flow,
To make the planting grow?
Blow all thy gracious gales
Elfe all its favour fails.
My with’ring heart inspire,
As various wants require.
With sharp convincing grace :
Resume their joyful place.
Make all the spices flow abroad,
As graces active here,
Faith, love, and joy appear.
Now to his garden grant,
What he himself did plant.
Christ awaketh the Church with his Calling.–The
Church, having a Taste of Christ's Love, is fick of Love.-A Discription of Cwrist by his Graces.
Verse 1. I am come into my garden, my sister, my
Spouse ; I bave gathered my myrrb with my Spice; I bave eaten my boney.comb with my boney; I bave drunk my wine with my milk : eat, o friends ; drink, yea, drink abundantly, o beloved.
My Love, in anfwer to thy pray’r,
The pleasure of the feast.
I'm to my garden come,
I'm pleas'd with this perfume.
The fruits are mine and thine.
I also welcome you :
love, Full freedom I allow.
Your fainting fpirits here refresh
With plenty spread abroad,
your incarnate God. Not elect angels ever share
Such strange and matchless food; They feast on their Creator's care,
Not your Redeemer's blood.
The Churcu's Words.
Verse 2. f I sleep, but my beart wakerb: it is the
voice of my Beloved that knocketb, saying, Open 10 me, my fifrer, my love, my dove, my undefiled; for my bead is wet with dew, and my locks witb
the drops of the night. The heart of Jesus kind I see,
But mine ungrateful fails ;
And oft the worst prevails.
In sloth unto my shame;
Against the lazy frame.
Some inward knocking hear;
Thus wounds my waking ear. " Come, open, my unspotted dove,
“ Thy heart I bolted find; “ Awake, my sister; rise, my Love,
“ Let in thy dearest friend. “ Wrath's mid-night show'r bedew'd my locks,
“ Storms on my head did blow : “ Wilt thou unkindly flight my knocks,
• Who suffer'd for thee fo; “ And now stand waiting patiently
“ To give the purchas'd good, “ At present ready to apply
“The blessings of my blood ?”
Verse 3. I bave put off my coat, bow fall I put it on ?
I have washed my feet, bow shall I defile them?
Kind Jesus knock'd and cry'd,
On bed of sloth reply'd;
« How shall I rise undrest ?
“ Excuse me ; let me rest.” My non-admission of his grace
His holy Spirit vext; My answer for my laziness
Was but a vile pretext.
Verse 4. My Beloved put in bis band by tbe bole of
the door, and my bowels were moved * for bim. When I so shamefully refus'd
Access to my Belov'd, Another kindly way he us'd,
Which my affections mov'd.
Yet, ere I was aware,
Did kindly draw the bar.
His gracious hand of pow'r : Then did his love upbraid my fin,
And melt by bowels sore.
Verse 5. I rose to open to my Beloved, and my bands
, dropped with myrrb, and my fingers with sweetSmelling myrrh, upon the bandles of the lock. How long he stood, how oft he knock’d,
How patient who can tell !
* Or, in me.