The Believer's Principles : Chap. V. Poem by Ralph Erskine

The Believer's Principles concerning Heaven and Earth.


Sect. I.


The Work and Contention of Heaven.


In heav'nly choirs a question rose,
That stirr'd up strife will never close,
What rank of all the ransom'd race
Owes highest praise to sov'reign grace?

Babes thither caught from womb and breast,
Claim'd right to sing above the rest;
Because they found the happy shore
They never saw nor sought before.

Those that arriv'd at riper age
Before they left the dusky stage,
Thought grace deserv'd yet higher praise,
That wash'd the blots of num'rous days.

Anon the war more close began,
What praising harp should lead the van?
And which of grace's heav'nly peers
Was deepest run in her arrears?

''Tis I (said one), 'bove all my race,
Am debtor chief to glorious grace.'
'Nay (said another), hark, I trow,
I'm more oblig'd to grace than you.'

'Stay (said a third), I deepest share
In owing praise beyond compare:
The chief of sinners, you'll allow,
Must be the chief of singers now.'

'Hold (said a fourth), I here protest
My praises must outvie the best;
For I'm of all the human race
The highest miracle of grace.'

'Stop (said a fifth), these notes forbear,
Lo, I'm the greatest wonder here;
For I of all the race that fell,
Deserv'd the lowest place in hell.'

A soul that higher yet aspir'd,
With equal love to Jesus fir'd,
''Tis mine to sing the highest notes
To love, that wash'd the foulest blots.'

'Ho (cry'd a mate), 'tis mine I'll prove,
Who sinn'd in spight of light and love,
To sound his praise with loudest bell,
That sav'd me from the lowest hell.'

'Come, come (said one), I'll hold the plea,
That highest praise is due by me;
For mine of all the sav'd by grace,
Was the most dreadful, desp'rate case.'

Another, rising at his side,
As fond to praise, and free of pride,
Cry'd, 'Pray give place, for I defy
That you should owe more praise than I:

I'll yield to none in this debate;
I'm run so deep in grace's debt,
That sure I am, I boldly can
Compare with all the heav'nly clan.'

Quick o'er their heads a trump awoke,
'Your songs my very heart have spoke;
But ev'ry note here propale,
Belongs to me beyond you all.'

The list'ning millions round about
With sweet resentment loudly shout;
'What voice is this, comparing notes,
That to their song chief place allots?

We can't allow of such a sound,
That you alone have highest ground
To sing the royalties of grace;
We claim the same adoring place.'

What! will no rival-singer yield
He has a match upon the field?
'Come, then, and let us all agree
To praise upon the highest key.'

Then jointly all the harpers round
In mind unite with solemn sound,
And strokes upon the highest string,
Made all the heav'nly arches ring:

Ring loud with hallelujah's high,
To Him that sent his Son to die;
And to the worthy Lamb of God,
That lov'd and wash'd him in his blood.

Free grace was sov'reign empress crown'd
In pomp, with joyful shouts around:
Assisting angels clapp'd their wings,
And sounded grace on all their strings.

The emulation round the throne
Made prostrate hosts, (who ev'ry one
The humblest place their right avow)
Strive who shall give the lowest bow.

The next contention without vice
Among the birds of paradise,
Made ev'ry glorious warbling throat
Strive who should raise the highest note.

Thus in sweet, holy, humble strife,
Along their endless, joyful life,
Of Jesus all the harpers rove,
And sing the wonders of his love.

Their discord makes them all unite
In raptures most divinely sweet;
So great the song, so grave the base,
Melodious music fills the place.


Sect. II.


Earth despicable, Heaven desirable.


There's nothing round the spacious earth
To suit my vast desires;
To more refin'd and solid mirth
My boundless thought aspires.

Fain would I leave this mournful place,
This music dull, where none
But heavy notes have any grace,
And mirth accents the moan:

Where troubles tread upon reliefs,
New woes with older blend;
Where rolling storms and circling griefs
Run round without an end:

Where waters wrestling with the stones
Do fight themselves to foam,
And hollow clouds with thund'ring groans
Discharge their pregnant womb:

Where eagles mounting meet with rubs
That dash them from the sky:
And cedars, shrinking into shrubs,
In ruin prostrate lie:

Where sin, the author of turmoils,
The cause of death and hell,
The one thing foul that all things soils,
Does most befriended dwell.

The purchaser of night and woe,
The forfeiture of day,
The debt that ev'ry man did owe,
But only God could pay.

Bewitching ill, indors'd with hope;
Subscribed with despair:
Ugly in death, when eyes are ope,
Though life may paint it fair.

Small wonder that I droop alone
In such a doleful place:
When lo, my dearest friend is gone,
My Father hides his face.

And though in words I seem to show
The fawning poet's style,
Yet is my plaint no feigned woe;
I languish in exile.

I long to share the happiness
Of that triumphant throng,
That swim in seas of boundless bliss
Eternity along.

When but in drops here by the way
Free love distils itself,
I pour contempt on hills of prey,
And heaps of worldly pelf.

To be amidst my little joys,
Thrones, sceptres, crowns, and kings,
Are nothing else but little toys,
And despicable things.

Down with disdain earth's pomp I thrust,
Bid tempting wealth away:
Heav'n is not made of yellow dust,
Nor bliss of glitt'ring clay.

Sweet has the hour I freedom felt,
To call my Jesus mine;
To see his smiling face, and melt
In pleasures all divine.

Let fools an heav'n of shades pursue,
But I for substance am:
The heav'n I seek is likeness to,
And vision of the Lamb:

The worthy Lamb with glory crown'd
In his august abode;
Inthron'd sublime, and deck'd around
With all the pomp of God.

I long to join the saints above,
Who crown'd with glorious bays,
Through radiant files of angels move,
And rival them in praise.

In praise to JAH, the God of love,
The fair incarnate Son,
The holy co-eternal Dove,
The good, the great Three-one,

In hope to sing without a sob
The anthem ever new,
I gladly bid the dusty globe,
And vain delights, Adieu.