Ralph Erskine

Ralph Erskine Poems

Ralph Erskine Biography

Ralph Erskine (18 March 1685 – 6 November 1752) was a Scottish churchman. Ralph Erskine was the brother of another prominent churchman, Ebenezer Erskine. After studying at the University of Edinburgh, Ralph was ordained assistant minister at Dunfermline in 1711. He ratified the protests which his brother laid on the table of the assembly after being rebuked for his synod sermon, but he did not formally withdraw from the establishment till 1737. He was also present at, though not a member of, the first meeting of the "associate presbytery". When the severance took place over the oath administered to burgesses, he adhered, along with his brother, to the burgher section. His works consist of sermons, poetical paraphrases and gospel sonnets. The Gospel Sonnets have frequently appeared separately. His Life and Diary, edited by the Rev. D Fraser, was published in 1842. There is a life size bronze statue of Ralph Erskine on a pedestal, not far from the High Street in the centre of Dunfermline.)

The Best Poem Of Ralph Erskine

The Believer's Riddle; Or, The Mystery Of Faith

Preface
,

Shewing the use and design of the Riddle.


Reader, the following enigmatic song
Does not to wisest nat'ralists belong:
Their wisdom is but folly on this head;
They here may ruminate, but cannot read,
For though they glance the words, the meaning chokes,
They read the lines, but not the paradox.
The subject will, howe'er the phrase be blunt,
Their most accute intelligence surmount,
If with the nat'ral and acquired sight
They share not divine evangelic light.

Great wits may rouse their fancies, rack their brains,
And after all their labour lose their pains;
Their wisest comments were but witless chat,
Unapt to frame an explication pat.
No unregen'rate mortal's best engines
Can right unriddle these few rugged lines;
Nor any proper notions thereof reach,
Though sublimated to the highest stretch.
Masters of reason, plodding men of sense,
Who scorn to mortify their vain pretence,
In this mysterious deep might plod their fill;
It overtops the top of all their skill.
The more they vainly huff, and scorn to read,
The more it does their foolish wit exceed.

Those sinners that are sanctify'd in part,
May read this riddle truly in their heart.
Yea, weakest saints may feel its truest sense,
Both in their sad and sweet experience.
Don't overlook it with a rambling view,
And rash suppose it neither good nor true.
Let Heaven's pure oracles the truth decide;
Renounce it, if it can't that test abide.
Noble Bereans soon the sense may hit,
Who sound the divine depth of sacred writ,
Not by what airy carnal reason saith,
But by the golden line of heaven-spun faith.

Let not the naughty phrase make you disprove
The weighty matter which deserves your love.
High strains would spoil the riddle's grand intent,
To teach the weakest, most illit'rate saint.
That Mananaim is his proper name;
In whom two struggling hosts made bloody game.
That such may know, whose knowledge is but rude,
How good consists with ill, and ill with good.
That saints be neither at their worst nor best,
Too much exalted, or too much deprest.

This paradox is fitted to disclose
The skill of Zion's friends above her foes;
To difference by light that Heaven transmits,
Some happy fools from miserable wits,
Add thus (if bless'd) it may in some degree
Make fools their wit, and wits their folly see.
Slight not the riddle then like jargon vile,
Because not garnish'd with a pompous style.
Could th' author act the lofty poet's part
Who make their sonnets soar on wings of art,
He on this theme had blush'd to use his skill,
And either clipt his wings, or broke his quill.

Why, this
enigma
climbs such divine heights
As scorn to be adorn'd with human flights.
These gaudy strains would lovely truth disgrace,
As purest paint deforms a comely face.
Heav'n's mysteries are 'bove art's ornament,
Immensely brighter than its brightest paint.
No tow'ring lit'rator could e'er outwit
The plainest diction fetch'd from sacred writ;
By which mere blazing rhet'ric is outdone,
As twinkling stars are by the radiant sun.
The soaring orators, who can with ease
Strain the quintessence of hyperboles,
And cloth the barest theme with purest dress,
Might here expatiate much, yet say the less,
If wi' th' majestical simplicity
Of scripture orat'ry they disagree.

These lines pretend not to affect the sky,
Content among inglorious shades to lie,
Provided sacred truth be fitly clad,
Or glorious shine ev'n through the dusky shade,
Mark then, though you should miss the gilded strain,
If they a store of golden truth contain:
Nor under-rate a jewel rare and prime,
Though wrapt up in the rags of homely rhime.

Though haughty Deists hardly stoop to say,
That nature's night has need of scripture day:
Yet gospel-light alone will clearly shew
How ev'ry sentence here is just and true,
Expel the shades that may the mind invoke,
And soon the seeming contradiction solve.
All fatal errors in the world proceed
From want of skill, such mysteries to read.
Vain men the double branch of truth divide,
Hold by the one, and slight the other side.

Hence proud Arminians cannot reconcile
Freedom of grace with freedom of the will.
The blinded Papist won't discern nor see
How works are good unless they justify.
Thus Legalists distinguish not the odds
Between their home-bred righteousness and God's.
Antinomists the saints perfection plead,
Nor duly sever 'tween them and their Head.
Socinians won't these seeming odds agree,
How heav'n is bought, and yet salvation free.
Bold Arians hate to reconcile or scan,
How Christ is truly God and truly man;
Holding the one part of Immanuel's name,
The other part outrageously blaspheme.
The sound in faith no part of truth controul:
Heretics own the half, but not the whole.

Keep then the sacred myst'ry still entire;
To both sides of truth do favour bear,
Not quitting one to hold the other branch;
But passing judgement on an equal bench;
The Riddle has two feet, and were but one
Cut off, truth falling to the ground were gone.
'Tis all a contradiction, yet all true,
And happy truth, if verify'd in you.

Go forward then to read the lines, but stay
To read the riddle also by the way.


Sect. I.


The Mystery of the Saints Pedigree, and especially of their relation to Christ's wonderful person.


My life's a maze of seeming traps,
A scene of mercies and mishaps;
A heap of jarring to and foes,
A field of joys, a flood of woes.

I'm in mine own and others eyes,
A labyrinth of mysteries.
I'm something that from nothing came,
Yet sure it is, I nothing am.

One was I dead, and blind, and lame,
Yea, I continue still the same;
Yet what I was, I am no more,
Nor ever shall be as before.

My Father lives, my father's gone,
My vital head both lost and won.
My parents cruel are and kind,
Of one, and of a diff'rent mind.

My father poison'd me to death,
My mother's hand will stop my breath;
Her womb, that once my substance gave,
Will very quickly be my grave.

My sisters all my flesh will eat,
My brethren tread me under feet;
My nearest friends are most unkind,
My greatest foe's my greatest friend.

He could from fend to friendship pass,
Yet never changes from what he was.
He is my Father, he alone
Who is my Father's only Son.

I am his mother's son, yet more,
A son his mother never bore,
But born of him, and yet aver
His Father's son my mother's were.

I am divorc'd, yet marry'd still,
With full consent, against my will.
My husband present is, yet gone,
We differ much, yet still are one.

He is the first, the last, the all,
Yet number'd up with insects small.
The first of all things, yet alone
The second of the great Three-one.

A creature? never could he be!
Yet is a creature strange I see;
And own this uncreated one,
The son of man, yet no man's son.

He's omnipresent, all may know,
Yet never could be wholly so.
His manhood is not here and there,
Yet he is God-man ev'ry where.

He comes and goes, none can him trace,
Yet never could he change his place.
But though he's good and ev'ry where,
No good's in hell, yet he is there.

I by him, in him chosen was,
Yet of the choice he's not the cause:
For sov'reign mercy ne'er was bought,
Yet through his blood a vent it sought.

In him concenter'd at his death
His Father's love, his Father's wrath:
Even he whom passion never seiz'd,
Was then most angry, when most pleas'd.

Justice requir'd that he should die
Who yet was slain unrighteously,
And dy'd in mercy and in wrath,
A lawful and a lawless death.

With him I neither liv'd nor dy'd,
And yet with him was crucify'd.
Law-curses stopt his breath, that he
Might stop its mouth from cursing me.

'Tis now a thousand years and moe
Since heav'n receiv'd him, yet I know,
When he ascended up on high,
To mount the throne, ev'n so did I.

Hence though earth's dunghill I embrace,
I sit with him in heav'nly place.
In divers distant orbs I move,
Inthrall'd below, inthron'd above.


Sect. II.


The mystery of the Saint's life, state, and frame.


My life's a pleasure and a pain;
A real loss, a real gain;
A glorious paradise of joys;
A grievous prison of annoys.

I daily joy, and daily mourn,
Yet daily wait the tide's return:
Then sorrow deep my spirit cheers,
I'm joyful in a flood of tears.

Good cause I have still to be sad,
Good reason always to be glad.
Hence still my joys with sorrow meet,
And still my tears are bitter sweet.

I'm cross'd, and yet have all my will;
I'm always empty, always full.
I hunger now, and thirst no more,
Yet do more eager than before.

With meat and drink indeed I'm blest,
Yet feed on hunger, drink on thirst.
My hunger brings a plenteous store,
My plenty makes me hunger more.

Strange is the place of my abode,
I dwell at home, I dwell abroad.
I am not where all men may see,
But where I never yet could be.

I'm full of hell, yet full of heav'n;
I'm still upright, yet still unev'n;
Imperfect, yet a perfect saint;
I'm ever poor, yet never want.

No mortal eye sees God and lives,
Yet sight and of him my soul revives.
I live best when I see most bright,
Yet live by faith and not by sight.

I'm lib'ral, yet have nought to spare;
Most richly cloth'd, yet stript and bare.
My stock is risen by my fall;
For, having nothing, I have all.

I'm sinful, yet I have no sin;
All spotted o'er, yet wholly clean.
Blackness and beauty both I share,
A hellish black, a heav'nly fair.

They're of the dev'l, who sin amain,
But I'm of God, yet sin retain!
This traitor vile the throne assumes,
Prevails, yet never overcomes.

I'm without guile, an Isra'lite,
Yet like a guileful hypocrite;
Maintaining truth in th' inward part,
With falsehood stirring in my heart.

Two masters, sure, I cannot serve,
But must from one regardless swerve;
Yet self is for my master known,
And Jesus is my Lord alone.

I seek myself incessantly
Yet daily do myself deny.
To me 'tis lawful, evermore,
Myself to love and to abhor.

In this vain world I live, yet see
I'm dead to it, and it to me.
My joy is endless, yet at best
Does hardly for a moment last.


Sect. III.


Mysteries about the saints work and warfare; their sins, sorrows, and joys.


The work is great, I'm call'd unto,
Yet nothing's left for me to do:
Hence for my work Heav'n has prepar'd
No wages, yet a great reward.

To works, but not to working dead;
From sin, but not from sinning freed,
I clear myself from no offence,
Yet wash mine hands in innocence.

My Father's anger burns like fire,
Without a spark of furious ire:
Though still my sins displeasing be,
Yet still I know he's pleas'd with me.

Triumphing is my constant trade,
Who yet am oft a captive led.
My bloody war does never cease,
Yet I maintain a stable peace.

My foes assaulting conquer me,
Yet ne'er obtain the victory;
For all my battles, lost or won,
Were gain'd before they were begun.

I'm still at ease, and still opprest;
Have constant trouble, constant rest;
Both clear and cloudy, free and bound;
Both dead and living, lost and found.

Sin for my good does work and win;
Yet 'tis not good for me to sin.
My pleasure issues from my pain;
My losses still increase my gain.

I'm heal'd, ev'n when my plagues abound,
Cover'd with dust, ev'n when I'm crown'd:
As low as death, when living high,
Nor shall I live, yet cannot die,

For all my sins my heart is sad,
Since God's dishonour'd, yet I'm glad;
Though once I was a slave to sin,
Since God does thereby honour win.

My sins are in his eye,
Yet he beholds no sin in me:
His mind that keeps them all in store,
Will yet remember them no more.

Because my sins are great, I feel
Great fears of heavy wrath; yet still
For mercy seek, for pardon wait,
Because my sins are very great.

I hope, when plung'd into despair;
I tremble, when I have no fear.
Pardons dispel my griefs and fears,
And yet dissolve my heart in tears.


Sect. IV.


Mysteries in Faith's extractions, way and walk, prayers and answers, heights and depths, fear and love.


With wasps and bees my busy bill
Sucks ill from good, and good from ill.
Humil'ty makes my pride to grow,
And pride aspiring lays me low.

My standing does my fall procure,
My falling makes me stand more sure.
My poison does my physic prove,
My enmity provokes my love.

My poverty infers my wealth,
My sickness issues in my health:
My hardness tends to make me soft,
And killing things do cure me oft.

While high attainments cast me down,
My deep abasements raise me soon;
My best things oft have evil brood,
My worst things work my greatest good.

My inward foes that me alarm,
Breed me much hurt yet little harm.
I get no good by them, yet see,
To my chief good, they cause me flee.

They reach to me a deadly stroke,
Yet send me to a living rock.
They make me long for Canaan's banks,
Yet sure I owe them little thanks.

I travel, yet stand firm and fast;
I run, but yet I make no haste.
I take away, both old and new,
Within my sight, yet out of view.

My way directs me, in the way,
And will not suffer me to stray:
Though high and out of sight it be,
I'm in the way; the way's in me.

'Tis straight, yet full of heights and depths;
I keep the way, the way me keeps.
And being that to which I tend,
My very way's my journey's end.

When I'm in company I groan,
Because I then am most alone;
Yet, in my closet secrecy,
I'm joyful in my company.

I'm heard afar, without a noise;
I cry without a lifted voice:
Still moving in devotion's sphere,
Yet seldom steady persevere.

I'm heard when answer'd soon or late;
And heard when I no answer get:
Yea, kindly answer'd when refus'd,
And friendly treat when harshly us'd.

My fervent pray'rs ne'er did prevail,
Nor e'er of prevalency fail.
I wrestle till my strength be spent,
Yet yield when strong recruits are sent.

I languish for my Husband's charms,
Yet faint away when in his arms;
My sweetest health does sickness prove;
When love me heals, I'm sick of love.

I am most merry when I'm sad;
Most full of sorrow when I'm glad:
Most precious when I am most vile,
And most at home when in exile.

My base and honourable birth
Excites my mourning, and my mirth;
I'm poor, yet stock'd with untold rent;
Most weak, and yet omnipotent.

On earth there's none so great and high,
Nor yet so low and mean as I:
None or so foolish, or so wise,
So often fall, so often rise.

I seeing him I never saw,
Serve without fear, and yet with awe.
Though love when perfect, fear remove;
Yet most I fear when most I love.

All things are lawful unto me,
Yet many things unlawful be;
To some I perfect hatred bear,
Yet keep the law of love entire.

I'm bound to love my friends, but yet
I sin unless I do them hate:
I am oblig'd to hate my foes,
Yet bound to love, and pray for those.

Heart-love to men I'm call'd t' impart,
Yet God still calls for all my heart.
I do him and his service both
By nature love, by nature lothe.


Sect. V.


Mysteries about flesh and spirit, liberty and bondage, life and death.


Much like my heart, both false and true,
I have a name, both old and new.
No new thing is beneath the sun;
Yet all is new, and old things gone.

Though in my flesh dwells no good thing,
Yet Christ in me I joyful sing.
Sin I confess, and I deny:
For though I sin, it is not I.

I sin against, and with my will;
I'm innocent, yet guilty still,
Though fain I'd be the greatest saint,
To be the least I'd be content.

My lowness may my height evince,
I'm both a beggar and a prince.
With meanest subjects I appear,
With kings a royal sceptre bear.

I'm both unfetter'd and involv'd.
By law condemn'd, by law absolv'd.
My guilt condignly punish'd see,
Yet I the guilty wretch go free.

My gain did by my loss begin;
My righteousness commenc'd by sin;
My perfect peace by bloody strife;
Life is my death, and death my life.

I'm (in this present life I know)
A captive and a freeman too;
And though my death can't set me free,
It will perfect my liberty.

I am not worth one dusty grain,
Yet more than worlds of golden gain;
Though worthless I myself endite,
Yet shall as worthy walk in white.


Sect. VI.


The Mystery of free justification though Christ's obedience and satisfaction.


No creature ever could or will
For sin yield satisfaction full;
Yet justice from the creature's hand
Both sought and got its full demand.

Hence though I am, as well I know,
A debtor, yet I nothing owe.
My creditor has nought to say,
Yet never had I aught to pay.

He freely pardon'd ev'ry mite,
Yet would no single farthing quit,
Hence ev'ry bliss that falls to me
Is dearly bought, yet wholly free.

All pardon that I need I have,
Yet daily pardon need to crave.
The law's arrest keeps me in awe,
But yet 'gainst me there is no law.

Though truth my just damnation crave,
Yet truth's engag'd my soul to save.
My whole salvation comes by this,
Fair truth and mercy's mutual kiss.

Law-breakers ne'er its curse have miss'd;
But I ne'er kept it, yet am bless'd.
I can't be justify'd by it,
And yet it can't but me acquit.

I'm oblig'd to keep it more,
Yet more oblig'd than e'er before.
By perfect doing life I find.
Yet
do
and
live
no more me bind.

These terms no change can undergo,
Yet sweetly chang'd they are: For lo,
My
doing
caus'd my life, but now
My
life's
the cause that makes me
do
.

Though works of righteousness I store,
Yet righteousness of works abhor;
For righteousness without a flaw
Is righteousness without the law.

In duties way I'm bound to lie,
Yet out of duties bound to fly:
Hence merit I renounce with shame,
Yet right to life by merit claim.

Merit of perfect righteousness
I never had, yet never miss;
On this condition I have all,
Yet all is unconditional.

Though freest mercy I implore,
Yet I am free on justice' score;
Which never could the guilty free,
Yet fully clears most guilty me.


Sect. VII.


The mystery of God the justifier,
Rom. iii. 26.
Justified both in his justifying and condemning; or soul-justification and self-condemnation.


My Jesus needs not save, yet must;
He is my hope, I am his trust.
He paid the double debt, well known
To be all mine, yet all his own.

Hence, though I ne'er had more or less
Of justice-pleasing righteousness,
Yet here is one wrought to my hand,
As full as justice can demand.

By this my Judge is more appeas'd
Than e'er my sin his honour leas'd.
Yea, justice can't be pleas'd so well
By all the torments borne in hell.

Full satisfaction here is such,
As hell can never yield so much;
Though justice therefore might me damn,
Yet by more justice sav'd I am.

Here ev'ry divine property
Is to the highest set on high;
Hence God his glory would injure,
If my salvation were not sure.

My peace and safety lie in this,
My Creditor my Surety is,
The judgement-day I dread the less,
My Judge is made my righteousness.

He paid out for a bankrupt crew
The debt that to himself was due;
And satisfy'd himself for me,
When he did justice satisfy.

He to the law, though Lord of it,
Did most obediently submit.
What he ne'er broke, and yet must die,
I never kept, yet live must I.

The law, which him its keeper kill'd,
In me its breaker is fulfill'd;
Yea magnify'd and honour'd more
Than sin defac'd it e'er before.

Hence though the law condemn at large,
It can lay nothing to my charge;
Nor find such ground to challenge me,
As Heaven hath found justify.

But though he freely me remit,
I never can myself acquit.
My Judge condemns me not, I grant;
Yet Justify myself I can't.

From him I have a pardon got,
But yet myself I pardon not.
His rich forgiveness still I have,
Yet never can myself forgive.

The more he's toward me appeas'd,
The more I'm with myself displeas'd,
The more I am absolv'd by him,
The more I do myself condemn.

When he in heav'n dooms me to dwell,
Then I adjudge myself to hell;
Yet still I to his judgement 'gree,
And clear him for absolving me.

Thus he clears me, and I him clear,
I justify my justifier,
Let him condemn or justify,
From all injustice I am free.


Sect. VIII.


The mystery of sanctification imperfect in this life; or, the Believer doing all, and doing nothing.


Mine arms embrace my God, yet I
Had never arms to reach so high;
His arms alone me hold, yet lo
I hold, and will not let him go.

I do according to his call,
And yet not I, but he does all;
But though he works to will and do,
I without force work freely too.

His will and mine agree full well,
Yet disagree like heav'n and hell,
His nature's mine, and mine is his;
Yet so was never that nor this.

I know him and his name, yet own
He and his name can ne'er be known.
His gracious coming makes me do;
I know he comes, yet know not how.

I have no good but what he gave,
Yet he commends the good I have.
And though my good to him ascends,
My goodness to him ne'er extends.

I take hold of his cov'nant free,
But find it must take hold of me,
I'm bound to keep it, yet 'tis bail,
And bound to keep me without fail.

The bond on my part cannot last,
Yet on both sides stands firm and fast.
I break my bands at ev'ry shock,
Yet never is the bargain broke.

Daily, alas! I disobey,
Yet yield obedience ev'ry day.
I'm an imperfect perfect man,
That can do all, yet nothing can.

I'm from beneath, and from above,
A child of wrath, a child of love.
A stranger e'en where all may know;
A pilgrim, yet I no-where go.

I trade abroad, yet stay at home;
My tabernacle is my tomb.
I can be prison'd, yet abroad;
Bound hand and foot yet walk with God.


Sect. IX.


The mystery of various names given to the Saints and Church of Christ; or, the Flesh and Spirit described from inanimated things, vegetables and sensitives.


To tell the world my proper name,
I both my glory and my shame;
For like my black but comely face,
My name is Sin, my name is Grace.

Most fitly I'm assimilate
To various things inanimate;
A standing lake, a running flood,
A fixed star, a passing cloud.

A cake unturn'd, nor cold, nor hot;
A vessel sound, a broken pot:
A rising sun, a drooping wing;
A flinty rock, a flowing spring.

A rotten beam, a virid stem;
A menst'rous cloth, a royal gem;
A garden barr'd, an open field;
A gliding stream, a fountain seal'd.

Of various vegetable see
A fair, a lively map in me.
A fragrant rose, a noisome weed;
A rotting, yet immortal seed.

I'm with'ring grass, and growing corn;
A pleasant plant, an irksome thorn;
An empty vine, a fruitful tree;
An humble shrub, a cedar high.

A noxious brier, a harmless pine;
A sapless twig, a bleeding vine:
A stable fir, a pliant bush;
A noble oak, a naughty rush.

With sensitives I may compare,
While I their various natures share:
Their distinct names may justly suit
A strange, a reasonable brute.

The sacred page my state describes
From volatile and reptile tribes;
From ugly vipers, beauteous birds;
From soaring hosts, and swinish herds.

I'm rank'd with beasts of diff'rent kinds,
With spiteful tygers, loving hinds;
And creatures of distinguish'd forms,
With mounting eagles, creeping worms.

A mixture of each sort I am;
A hurtful snake, a harmless lamb;
A tardy bunny, a speedy roe;
A lion bold, a tim'rous doe.

A slothful owl, a busy ant;
A dove to mourn, a lark to chant:
And with less equals to compare,
An ugly toad, an angel fair.


Sect. X.


The mystery of the saints old and new man further described; and the means of their spiritual life.


Temptations breed me much annoy,
Yet divers such I count all joy.
On earth I see confusion reel,
Yet wisdom ord'ring all things well.

I sleep, yet have a waking ear;
I'm blind and deaf, yet see and hear:
Dumb, yet cry,
Abba, Father
, plain,
Born only once, yet born again.

My heart's a mirror dim and bright,
A compound strange of day and night:
Of dung and di'monds, dross and gold;
Of summer heat and winter cold.

Down like a stone I sink and dive,
Yet daily upward soar and thrive.
To heav'n I fly, to earth I tend;
Still better grow but never mend.

My heav'n and glory's sure to me,
Though thereof seldom sure I be:
Yet what makes me the surer is,
God is my glory, I am his.

My life's expos'd to open view,
Yet closely hid and known to few.
Some know my place, and whence I came,
Yet neither whence, nor where I am.

I live in earth, which is not odd;
But lo, I also live in God:
A spirit without flesh and blood,
Yet with them both to yield me food.

I leave what others live upon,
Yet live I not on bread alone;
But food adapted to my mind,
Bare words, yet not on empty wind.

I'm no Anthropophagite rude,
Though fed with human flesh and blood;
But live superlatively fine,
My food's all spirit, all divine.

I feast on fulness night and day,
Yet pinch'd for want I pine away,
My leanness, leanness, ah! I cry;
Yet fat and dulle of sap am I.

As all amphibious creatures do,
I live in land and water too:
To good and evil equal bent,
I'm both a devil, and a saint.

While some men who on earth are gods,
Are with the God of heaven at odds,
My heart, where hellish legions are,
Is with the host of hell at war.

My will fulfils what's hard to tell,
The counsel both of heav'n, and hell;
Heav'n, without sin, will'd sin to be;
Yet will to sin, is sin in me.

To duty seldom I adhere,
Yet to the end I persevere.
I die and rot beneath the clod,
Yet live and reign as long as God.


Sect. XI.


The mystery of Christ, his names, natures, and offices.


My Lord appears; awake my soul,
Admire his name, the Wonderful,
An infinite and finite mind
Eternity and time conjoin'd.

The everlasting Father styl'd,
Yet lately born, the virgin's child.
Nor father he nor mother had,
Yet full with both relations clad.

His titles differ and accord,
As David's son, and David's Lord.
Through earth and hell how conq'ring rode
Thy dying man, the rising God!

My nature is corruption doom'd;
Yet when my nature he assum'd,
He nor on him (to drink the brook)
My person nor corruption took.

Yet he assum'd my sin and guilt,
For which the noble blood was spilt,
Great was the guilt-o'erflowing flood,
The creature's and Creator's blood!

The Chief of chiefs amazing came,
To bear the glory and the shame;
Anointed Chief with oil of joy,
Crown'd Chief with thorns of sharp annoy.

Lo, in his white and ruddy face
Roses and lilies strive for place;
The morning-star, the rising sun,
With equal speed and splendour run.

How glorious is the church's head,
The Son of God, the woman's seed!
How searchless is his noble clan,
The first the last, the second man!

With equal brightness in his face,
Shines divine justice, divine grace;
The jarring glories kindly meet,
Stern vengeance and compassion sweet.

God is a Spirit, seems it odd
To sing aloud the blood of God?
Yea, hence my peace and joy result,
And here my lasting hope is built.

Love through his blood a vent has sought,
Yet divine love was never bought:
Mercy could never purchas'd be,
Yet ev'ry mercy purchas'd he.

His triple station brought me peace,
The Altar, Priest, and Sacrifice;
His triple office ev'ry thing,
My Priest, my Prophet is, and King.

This King, who only man became,
Is both the Lion and the Lamb;
A King of kings, and kingdoms broad;
A servant both to man and God.

This prophet kind himself has set
To be my book and alphabet,
And ev'ry needful letter plain,

Alpha, Omega,
and
Amen.

Sect. XII.


The mystery of the Believer's fixed state further enlarged; and his getting forth out of evil.


Behold, I'm all defil'd with sin,
Yet lo, all glorious am within,
In Egypt and in Goshen dwell;
Still moveless, and in motion still.

Unto the name that most I dread,
I flee with joyful wings and speed.
My daily hope does most depend
On him I daily most offend.

All things against me are combin'd,
Yet working for my good I find.
I'm rich in midst of poverties,
And happy in my miseries.

Oft my Comforter sends me grief,
My Helper sends me no relief.
Yet herein my advantage lies,
That help and comfort he denies.

As seamsters into pieces cut
The cloth they into form would put,
He cuts me down to make me up,
And empties me to fill my cup.

I never can myself enjoy,
Till he my woful self destroy;
And most of all myself I am,
When most I do myself disclaim.

I glory in infirmities,
Yet daily am sham'd of these;
Yea, all my pride gives up the ghost,
When once I but begin to boast.

My chymistry is most exact,
Heav'n out of hell I do extract:
This art to me a tribute brings
Of useful out of hurtful things.

I learn to draw well out of woe,
And thus to disappoint the foe;
The thorns that in my flesh abide,
Do bunny the tympany of pride.

By wounding foils the field I win,
And sin itself destroys my sin:
My lusts break on another's pate,
And each corruption kills its mate.

I smell the bait, I feel the harm
Of corrupt ways, and take th' alarm.
I taste the bitterness of sin,
And then to relish grace begin.

I hear the fools profanely talk,
Thence wisdom learn in word and walk:
I see them throng the passage broad,
And learn to take the narrow road.


Sect. XIII.


The mystery of the Saints adversaries and adversities.


A Lump of wo affliction is,
Yet thence I borrow lumps of bliss:
Though few can see a blessing in't,
It is my furnace and my mint.

Its sharpness does my lust dispatch;
Its suddenness alarms my watch,
Its bitterness refines my taste,
And weans me from the creature's breast.

Its weightiness doth try my back,
That faith and patience be not slack:
It is a fanning wind, whereby
I am unchaff'd of vanity.

A furnace to refine my grace,
A wing to lift my soul apace;
Hence still the more I sob distrest,
The more I sing my endless rest.

Mine enemies that seek my hurt,
Of all their bad designs come short:
They serve me duly to my mind,
With favours which they ne'er design'd.

The fury of my foes makes me
Fast to my peaceful refuge flee;
And ev'ry persecuting elf
Does make me understand myself.

Their slanders cannot work my shame,
Their vile reproaches raise my name;
In peace with Heav'n my soul can dwell,
Ev'n when they damn me down to hell.

Their fury can't the treaty harm,
Their passion does my pity warm;
Their madness only calms my blood:
By doing hurt they do me good.

They are my sordid slaves I wot;
My drudges, though they know it not:
They act to me a kindly part,
With little kindness in their heart.

They sweep my outer-house when foul,
Yea, wash my inner filth of soul:
They help to purge away my blot,
For Moab is my washing pot.


Sect. XIV.


The mystery of the Believer's pardon and security from revenging wrath, notwithstanding his sin's desert.


I, though from condemnation free,
Find such condemnables in me,
As make more heavy wrath my due
Than falls on all the damned crew.

But though my crimes deserve the pit,
I'm no more liable to it;
Remission seal'd with blood and death
Secures me from deserved wrath.

And having now a pardon free,
To hell obnoxious cannot be,
Nor to a threat, except anent
Paternal wrath and chastisement.

My soul may oft be fill'd indeed
With slavish fear and hellish dread:
This from my unbelief does spring,
My faith speaks out some better thing:

Faith sees no legal guilt again,
Though sin and its desert remain:
Some hidden wonders hence result;
I'm full of sin, yet free from guilt:

Guilt is the legal bond or knot,
That binds to wrath and vengeance hot;
But sin may be where guilt's away,
And guilt where sin could never stay.

Guilt without any sin has been,
As in my Surety may be seen;
The elect's guilt upon him came,
Yet still he was the
holy Lamb.


Sin without guilt may likewise be,
As may appear in pardon'd me:
For though my sin, alas! does stay,
Yet pardon takes the guilt away.

Thus free I am, yet still involv'd;
A guilty sinner, yet absolv'd;
Though pardon leave no guilt behind,
Yet sin's desert remains I find.

Guilt and demerit differ here,
Though oft their names confounded are,
I'm guilty in myself always,
Since sin's demerit ever stays.

Yet in my head I'm always free
From proper guilt affecting me;
Because my Surety's blood cancell'd
The bond of curses once me held.

The guilt that pardon did divorce,
From legal threat'nings drew its force:
But sin's desert that lodges still,
Is drawn from sin's intrinsic ill.

Were guilt nought else but sin's desert,
Of pardon I'd renounce my part;
For were I now in heav'n to dwell,
I'd own my sins deserved hell.

This does my highest wonder move
At matchless justifying love,
That thus secures from endless death
A wretch deserving double wrath.

Though well my black desert I know,
Yet I'm not liable to woe;
While full and complete righteousness
Imputed for my freedom is.

Hence my security from wrath,
As firmly stands on Jesus' death,
As does my title unto heav'n
Upon his great obedience giv'n.

The sentence Heav'n did full pronounce,
Has pardon'd all my sins at once:
And ev'n from future crimes acquit,
Before I could the facts commit.

I'm always in a pardon'd state
Before and after sin; but yet
That vainly I presume not hence,
I'm seldom pardon'd to my sense.

Sin brings a
vengeance
on my head,
Though from avenging wrath I'm freed.
And though my sins
all
pardon'd be,
Their pardon's not
apply'd
to me.

Thus though I need no pardon more,
Yet need new pardons ev'ry hour.
In point of application free;
Lord, wash anew, and pardon me.


Sect. XV.


The mystery of faith and sight, - of which more,
The Believer's Principles. Chap. iv.

Strange contradictions me befal,
I can't believe unless I see;
Yet never can believe at all,
Till once I shut the seeing eye.

When sight of sweet experience
Can give my faith no helping hand,
The sight of sound intelligence
Will give it ample ground to stand.

I walk by faith, and not by sight:
Yet knowledge does my faith resound,
Which cannot walk but in the light.
Ev'n when experience runs a ground.

By knowledge I discern and spy
In divine light the object shown;
By faith I take and close apply
The glorious object as mine own.

My faith thus stands on divine light,
Believing what it clearly sees,
Yet faith is opposite to sight,
Trusting its ear, and not its eyes.

Faith list'ning to a sweet report,
Still comes by hearing, not by sight;
Yet is not faith of saving sort,
But when it sees in divine light.

In fears I spend my vital breath,
In doubts I waste my passing years!
Yet still the life I live is faith,
The opposite of doubts and fears.

'Tween clearing faith and clouding sense,
I walk in darkness and in light.
I'm certain oft, when in suspense,
While sure by faith, and not by sight.


Sect. XVI.


The mystery of faith and works, and rewards of grace and debt.


I. OF FAITH AND WORKS.

He that in word offendeth not,
Is call'd a perfect man I wot,
Yet he whose thoughts and deeds are bad,
The law-perfection never had.

I am design'd a perfect soul,
Ev'n though I never kept the whole,
Nor any precept; for 'tis known,
He breaks them all, that breaks but one.

By faith I do perfection claim,
By works I never grasp the name;
Yet without works my faith is nought,
And thereby no perfection brought.

Works without faith will never speed,
Faith without works is wholly dead:
Yet I am justify'd by faith,
Which no law works adjutant hath.

Yea gospel-works no help can lend,
Though still they do my faith attend:
Yet faith by works is perfect made,
And by their presence justify'd.

But works with faith could never vie,
And only faith can justify:
Yet still my justifying faith
No justifying value hath.

Lo, justifying grace from heav'n
Is foreign ware, and freely giv'n:
And saving faith is well content
To be a mere recipient.

Faith's active in my sanctity:
But here its act it will deny,
And frankly own it never went
Beyond a passive instrument,

I labour much like holy Paul;
And yet not I, but grace does all;
I try to spread my little sails,
And wait for powerful moving gales.

When pow'r's convey'd, I work; but see,
'Tis still his pow'r that works in me.
I am an agent at his call,
Yet nothing am, for grace is all.

II. OF REWARDS OF GRACE AND DEBT.

In all my works I still regard
The recompense of full reward;
Yet such my workings is withal,
I look for no reward at all.

God's my reward exceeding great,
No lesser heav'n than this I wait:
But where's the earning work so broad,
To set me up an heir of God?

Rewards of debt, rewards of grace,
Are opposites in ev'ry case;
Yet sure I am they'll both agree
Most jointly in rewarding me.

Though hell's my just reward for sin,
Heav'n as my just reward I'll win.
Both these my just rewards I know,
Yet truly neither of them so.

Hell can't in justice be my lot,
Since justice satisfaction got;
Nor heav'n in justice be my share,
Since mercy only brings me there.

Yet heav'n is mine by solemn oath,
In justice and in mercy both:
And God in Christ is all my trust,
Because he's merciful and just.

CONCLUSION.

Here is the riddle, where's the man
Of judgement to expound?
For masters fam'd that cannot scan,
In Isra'l may be found.

We justly those in wisdom's list
Establish'd saints may call,
Whose bitter-sweet experience blest,
Can clearly grasp it all.

Some babes in grace may mint and marr,
Yet aiming right succeed:
But strangers they in Isra'l are,
Who not at all can read.

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