Page:The poetical works of William Cowper (IA poeticalworksof00cowp).pdf/112

 " birds their infant brood protect,
 * And spread their wings to shelter them,

(Thus saith the LORD to his elect,)
 * So will I guard Jerusalem."

And what then is Jerusalem,
 * This darling object of his care?

Where is its worth in God's esteem,
 * Who built it? who inhabits there?

Jehovah founded it in blood,
 * The blood of his incarnate Son;

There dwell the saints, once foes to God,
 * The sinners whom he calls his own.

There, though besieged on every side,
 * Yet much beloved, and guarded well,

From age to age they have defied
 * The utmost force of earth and hell.

Let earth repent, and hell despair,
 * This city has a sure defence;

Her name is called "The Lord is there,"
 * And who has power to drive him thence?

is a fountain filled with blood
 * Drawn from Emmanuel's veins;

And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,
 * Lose all their guilty stains.

The dying thief rejoiced to see
 * That fountain in his day;

And there have I, as vile as he,
 * Washed all my sins away.

Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood
 * Shall never lose its power,

Till all the ransomed church of God
 * Be saved, to sin no more.

E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream
 * Thy flowing wounds supply,

Redeeming love has been my theme,
 * And shall be till I die.

Then in a nobler, sweeter song,
 * I'll sing thy pow'r to save;

When this poor lisping, stammering tongue
 * Lies silent in the grave.

Lord, I believe thou hast prepared
 * (Unworthy though I be)

For me a blood-bought free reward,
 * A golden harp for me!

'Tis strung, and tuned, for endless years,
 * And formed by power divine,

To sound in God the Father's ears
 * No other name but thine.

sons of earth, prepare the plough,
 * Break up your fallow-ground;

The sower is gone forth to sow,
 * And scatter blessings round.

The seed that finds a stony soil
 * Shoots forth a hasty blade;

But ill repays the sower's toil,
 * Soon withered, scorched, and dead.

The thorny ground is sure to balk
 * All hopes of harvest there;

We find a tall and sickly stalk,
 * But not the fruitful ear.

The beaten path and highway side
 * Receive the trust in vain;

The watchful birds the spoil divide,
 * And pick up all the grain.

But where the Lord of grace and power
 * Has blessed the happy field,

How plenteous is the golden store
 * The deep-wrought furrows yield!

Father of mercies, we have need
 * Of thy preparing grace;

Let the same hand that gives the seed
 * Provide a fruitful place!

mansion is the Christian's heart,
 * O Lord, thy dwelling-place secure!

Bid the unruly throng depart,
 * And leave the consecrated door.