Queries

Hast thou forsak'n thy known sins that were
Just arguments for all thy doubts and fear?
Do Gospel-Graces in thy heart now grow,
Where various Vanities did overflow?
Can'st thou o'ercome thy self, the World subdue?
Caesar was a less Conquerour than you.
Do'st thou love and fear thy God, do'st thou dread
To do amiss, and trust in Christ thy Head?
Is the Resurrection thy firm belief?
Does it equal the crucified Thief?
Do'st thou think Heav'n, in all its Beauty, shines
Brighter than Diamonds from our earthly Mines?
Do'st thou fancie what that great glory is,
That fills the Saints with everlasting Bliss?
Do'st thou believe thy self shall have a share
In Paradise, as an adopted Heir?
I do not doubt but thou wilt now, say Aye
To all those Quaeries of thy Piety.
There is yet one behind, put to the test,
Will try the intrinsick value of the rest:
Do'st thou desire to be dissolv'd, to be
With Christ, new-cloath'd with his Divinity?
The object of thy Faith and Prayers possess,
Which frees from ills, and fills with happiness?
If the approach of death does make thee start,
Examin't well, thou art not right at heart:
It is the business of our life to die,
And to fear death is infidelity
In some degree, or madness to desire
To be in Heav'n, that do'st from Heav'n retire.
To this some pious Christian may reply,
How can we chuse but be afraid to die,
When Christ, the head of our Humanity,
Sweat drops of Blood in his great agony?
But his Passion differ'd from the small pain
We feel; he did the wrath of God sustain;
And on himself he all the torments drew,
Which for the sins of all the world were due;
And by that act alone, destroy'd the sting
Of death, that so he might more eas'ly bring
Mankind to Heav'n, leaving us no pretence
To fear the passage, but our diffidence
In the success. We either doubt the bliss,
Or doubt that we the happiness shall miss.
Young Babes, who neither fear nor fancy have,
Like equally the Cradle and the Grave.