Page:Elegy upon the death of that famous and faithful minister and martyr Mr. James Renwick.pdf/4

(4) Come, all ye faithful followers of the Lamb,

Whole hearts in zeal do for his glory flame,

Whole hearts in fervent love to Christ are burning,

Whole hearts do melt out at their eyes in mourning

Come, with a flood of Tears the valleys fill,

And make your voice resound from hill to hill;

Cause all the mountains circling round from Carrick,

With roaring noise, rebound as far as Berwick;

From Carn table skirts, and Ahingilloch,

To Morochs tow’ring heights, and heads of Killoch;

From Tintoch-tops, and all the hills of Clidsdale,

To all the hills of Galloway ami Nithsdale,

From thereabout Black-gannoch, and the Lothers,

To Crawfoord-muir, and Tweeddale hills and others

Wherein ye hunted were, through all the glens,

Wherein ye hiding places sought in dens,

Wherein ye often forced were to flights,

Wherein ye often filled were with frights,

Wherein your hands were strengthned, heads supported

Your minds confirmed, and your hearts comforted,

While your renowned, now a Martyr

Was passing through, preaching in every quarter,

His Master’s glorious and gracious banner

Displaying faithfully, in lovely manner;

Like to a voice in wildernesses crying,

Making a noise most sweet, as Swans when dying,

Declaring all God’s counsels, and revealed

Truths, which alive h’asserted, dying sealed:

But now in those waste desolate recesses,

No voice is heard, but mourning for distresses,

No voice is heard, but that of grievous groaning,

The Glory gone, deplorably bemoaning.

Come therefore and put on your Sable, saints,

Fill all the hills and vales with sad complaints,

Wherof the Eccho may be heard in heaven,

In lamentations for the blow that’s given,

Unto the wounded weeping remnant left,

Which of their Renwick is of late bereft,

By murd’rirg violence of beasts of prey,

Rome’s bloody whelps, torn from his house of clay,

How may his little flock, alas, complain!

How may they now, so great a loss sustain!

Scotland hath lost, the world hath lost a man,

Whose Room supply, there’s few surviving can:

The church hath lost a Son more pure and dearer,

Than Ophir's gold, the truth a Standard-bearer;