11
Religion, Andrew’s like a race,
In which we’re call’d to run;
And he that stands or slacks his pace,
Can ne’er expect to win.
There may be youths, I do not doubt,
(Though ye may think me joking),
Will sit within and s'ye without,
Or hear ye standing knocking.
In meekness, charity, and love,
We should the young esteem;
'Tis hard enough for to improve
But harder to redeem.
The twig in youth is easy bent
To where it should incline,
While rugged storms must tear and rend,
Old trunks like yours and mine.
As if the Spirit by the truth,
That fills the sacred page,
Would paint the piety of youth
The infamy of age.
So he begins in early times
A doleful tale to tell,
How by an Elder brother’s crimes
The pious Abel fell.
When men and vice went hand in hand,
’Till faith could scarce be found,
A mighty flood o’erwhelm’d the land,
And Adam’s sans were drown’d.
An ark prepar’d of pond’rous weight,
Upon the waters hung,
The number sav’d in it were eight,
And six of those were young.
