CXCII. CHRIST'S Complaint of his Father's forsaking him on the Cross.

WHAT doleful Accents do I hear?
What piercing Cry invades mine Ear?
Loaded with Shame, and bath'd in Blood,
Who calls to a forsaking GOD?

Amazing and Heart-rending Sight!
'Tis his own Darling and Delight,
Who once in his Embraces lay,
Dearer than all the Sons of Day!

Yet when this Jesus died for me,
Distended on the cursed Tree,
GOD stood afar, nor would afford
One pitying Look, one chearing Word.

What then, my Soul, must thou have felt,
If press'd with all thy Load of Guilt,
Beneath whose Weight the Saviour cries,
Who form'd the Earth, and built the Skies?

But in that dark tremendous Hour,
Unconquer'd Faith exerts its Pow'r;
My GOD, my Father, cried aloud,
And Heav'n th' endearing Name avow'd.

From Death, from Earth he rais'd his Son,
And gave him for his Cross a Throne;
Triumphant there the Suff'rer reigns,
And reaps the Harvest of his Pains.

Eternal Raptures there are known;
Nor flows the Joy on him alone,
But for his Sake the LORD hath swore,
To leave the meanest Saint no more.