66
The Complaint.
Night 4.
How counterpois'd his Origin from Dust!
How counterpois'd, to Dust his sad Return!
How voided his vast Distance from the Skies?
How near he presses on the Seraph's Wing!
Which is the Seraph? Which the Born of Clay?
How This demonstrates, thro' the thickest Cloud
Of Guilt, and Clay condenst, the Son of Heav'n!
The double Son; the Made, and the Re made!
And shall Heav'n's double Property be lost?
Man's double Madness only can destroy.
To Man the bleeding Cross has promis'd All;
The bleeding Cross has sworn eternal Grace;
Who gave his Life, what Grace shall He deny?
O ye! who, from this Rock of Ages, leap.
Disdainful, plunging headlong in the Deep!
What cordial Joy, what Consolation strong,
Whatever Winds arise, or Billows roll,
Our Int'rest in the Master of the Storm?
Cling there, and in wreck'd Nature's Ruins smile;
While vile Apostates tremble in a Calm.
Man! Know thy self. All Wisdom centres there:
To none Man seems ignoble, but to Man;
Angels that Grandeur, Men o'erlook, admire:
How long shall Human Nature be Their Book,
Degen'rate Mortal! and unread by Thee?
The Beam dim Reason sheds shews Wonders There;
What high Contents! Illustrious Faculties!
But the grand Comment, which displays at Full
Our human Height, scarce sever'd from Divine,
By Heav'n compos'd, was publish'd on the Cross.
Who looks on That, and sees not in himself
An aweful Stranger, a Terrestrial God?
A glorious Partner with the Deity
In that high Attribute, immortal Life?
If a God bleeds, he bleeds not for a Worm:
How counterpois'd, to Dust his sad Return!
How voided his vast Distance from the Skies?
How near he presses on the Seraph's Wing!
Which is the Seraph? Which the Born of Clay?
How This demonstrates, thro' the thickest Cloud
Of Guilt, and Clay condenst, the Son of Heav'n!
The double Son; the Made, and the Re made!
And shall Heav'n's double Property be lost?
Man's double Madness only can destroy.
To Man the bleeding Cross has promis'd All;
The bleeding Cross has sworn eternal Grace;
Who gave his Life, what Grace shall He deny?
O ye! who, from this Rock of Ages, leap.
Disdainful, plunging headlong in the Deep!
What cordial Joy, what Consolation strong,
Whatever Winds arise, or Billows roll,
Our Int'rest in the Master of the Storm?
Cling there, and in wreck'd Nature's Ruins smile;
While vile Apostates tremble in a Calm.
Man! Know thy self. All Wisdom centres there:
To none Man seems ignoble, but to Man;
Angels that Grandeur, Men o'erlook, admire:
How long shall Human Nature be Their Book,
Degen'rate Mortal! and unread by Thee?
The Beam dim Reason sheds shews Wonders There;
What high Contents! Illustrious Faculties!
But the grand Comment, which displays at Full
Our human Height, scarce sever'd from Divine,
By Heav'n compos'd, was publish'd on the Cross.
Who looks on That, and sees not in himself
An aweful Stranger, a Terrestrial God?
A glorious Partner with the Deity
In that high Attribute, immortal Life?
If a God bleeds, he bleeds not for a Worm:
I gaze,
