24
ON THE DEATH
of a Profligate,
My thoughts on woeful subjects roll,
Damnation and the dead,
What horrors seize a guilty foul,
Upon a dying bed.
Lingering about these mortal shores.
He makes a long delay
Till, like a flood with rapid force,
Death sweeps the wretched away.
Then, swift, and dreadful the descends,
Down to the fiery coast,
Amongst abominable friends,
Herself a frightful ghost.
There endless crowds of Sinners lie.
And darkness makes their chains:
Tortur'd with Keen dispair they cry,
Yet wait for fiercer pains.
Not all their anguish and their blood.
For their old guilt atones.
Nor the Compassion of a God,
Shall hearken to their groans
Oh I may thy grace prevent my breath
Nor bid my tool remove.
Till I have learn’d my Saviours deaths
And well insur’d his love.
FINIS.
