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A poem on his laſt ſermon, which was preached a few weeks before he died, from Matth. xxii. 42. “What think ye of Chriſt?"
Beloved, what think ye of Chriſt?
Who giveth to the weary reſt:
What think ye of his lowly birth?
When he came down from heav'n to earth:
What think ye of his incarnation?
And what he did for our ſalvation,
This is the goſpel-proclamation.
What think ye of his holy life?
Free from contention, wrath, and ſtrife;
Without a wrinkle, ſpot, or ſtain,
And yet a life of grief and pain.
What think ye of the broken law?
Which he fulfill'd in every flaw:
It magnify'd, paid juſtice due,
And made it honourable too.
What think ye of his righteouſneſs?
To cover you from filthineſs:
Although polluted you have been,
'Tis he alone that makes you clean.
What think ye of this great I AM?
For to become a ſuff'ring L mb:
And all this for his enemies,
He groans, and ſweets, and bleeds, and dies.
What think ye of this ſacrifice?
That did aſcend above the ſkies:
'Twas a ſweet ſavour unto God,
When he the red-wine-preſs had trode.
What think ye of his interceſſion?
He makes to God, for our tranſgreſſion!
