35. Private Judgment
|
{78}
POOR wand'rers, ye are sore distress'd |
|
To find that path which Christ has bless'd, |
| Track'd by His saintly throng; |
|
Each claims to trust his own weak will, |
|
Blind idol!—so ye languish still, |
|
All wranglers and all wrong.
|
He saw of old, and met your need, |
|
Granting you prophets of His creed, |
| The throes of fear to swage; |
|
They fenced the rich bequest He made, |
|
And sacred hands have safe convey'd |
|
Their charge from age to age.
|
Wand'rers! come home! obey the call! |
|
A Mother pleads, who ne'er let fall {79} |
| One grain of Holy Truth; |
|
Warn you and win she shall and must, |
|
For now she lifts her from the dust, |
|
To reign as in her youth.
|
|
Off Cape Ortegal.
December 11, 1832.
|