5 [So sprung the plague from Adam's bower,
And spread destruction all abroad;
Sin, the curs'd name, that in one hour
Spoil'd six days labour of a God.]
6 Tremble, my soul, and mourn for grief,
That such a foe should seize thy breast;
Fly to thy Lord for quick relief;
O! may he slay this treacherous guest.
Then to thy throne, victorious King,
Then to thy throne our shouts shall rise,
Thine everlasting arm we sing,
For sin the monster bleeds and dies.
[1] Job 38:7. [2] Isaiah 14:12.
Hymn 2:25.
Complaining of spiritual sloth.
1 My drowsy powers, why sleep ye so?
Awake, my sluggish soul!
Nothing has half thy work to do,
Yet nothing's half so dull.
2 The little ants for one poor grain
Labour, and tug, and strive,
Yet we who have a heaven t' obtain,
How negligent we live!
3 We for whose sake all nature stands
And stars their courses move;
We for whose guard the angel bands
Come flying from above;
4 We for whom God the Son came down,
And labour'd for our good,
How careless to secure that crown
He purchas'd with his blood!
5 Lord, shall we lie so sluggish still,
And never act our parts?
Come, holy Dove, from th' heavenly hill,
And sit and warm our hearts.
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