CXXI. A Nation born in a Day; or The rapid Progress of the Gospel desired.

BEHOLD with pleasing Extacy
The Gospel-Standard lifted high,
That all the Nations from afar
May in the great Salvation share.

Why then, Almighty Saviour, why
Do wretched Souls in Millions die?
While wide th' infernal Tyrant reigns
O'er spacious Realms in pond'rous Chains.

And shall he still go on to boast,
Thy Cross its Energy hath lost?
And shall thy Servants still complain,
Their Labours, and their Tears are vain?

Awake, all-conqu'ring Arm, awake,
And Hell's extensive Empire shake;
Assert the Honours of thy Throne,
And call this ruin'd World thine own.

Thine all-successful Pow'r display;
Produce a Nation in a Day;
For at thy Word this barren Earth
Shall travail with a gen'ral Birth.

Swift let thy quick'ning Spirit breathe
On these Abodes of Sin and Death;
That Breath shall bow ten thousand Minds,
Like waving Corn before the Winds.

Scarce can our glowing Hearts endure
A World, where thou art known no more;
Transform it, LORD, by conqu'ring Love,
Or bear us to the Realms above.