CXXXIX. The Breath of our Nostrils taken in the Pits of the Enemy, applied to CHRIST.

BLEST Saviour, to my Heart more dear
Than balmy Gales of vital Air,
Were thy Soul-chearing Presence gone,
What Use of Breath, unless to groan?

Thy Father's royal Hand hath shed
In rich Profusion on thy Head
Ten thousand Graces; Thou alone
Canst share, and canst adorn his Throne.

But see the Sov'reign captive led,
Snar'd in the Pit, which Traitors made,
Fetter'd with ignominious Bands,
And murder'd by rebellious Hands.

Ye Saints, to your expiring King
Your tributary Sorrows bring:
In loyal Crowds assemble round,
And bathe in Tears each precious Wound.

But from the Caverns of the Grave
He springs, omnipotent to save;
The captive King ascends and reigns,
And drags his conqu'red Foes in Chains.

Beneath his Shade our Souls shall live
In all the Rapture Heav'n can give;
Where Zion never shall deplore,
And Heathens vex his Church no more.