CXLIX. The Backslider recollecting himself in his Afflictions.

THE LORD, how kind are all his Ways,
When most they seem severe!
He frowns, and scourges, and rebukes,
That we may learn his Fear.

With Thorns he fences up our Path,
And builds a Wall around,
To guard us from the Death, that lurks
In Sin's forbidden Ground.

When other Lovers, sought in vain,
Our fond Address despise,
He opens his indulgent Arms
With Pity in his Eyes.

Return, ye wand'ring Souls, return,
And seek his tender Breast;
Call back the Mem'ry of the Days,
When there you found your Rest.

Behold, O LORD, we fly to Thee,
Tho' Blushes veil our Face,
Constrain'd our last Retreat to seek
In thy much-injur'd Grace.