Written After the Conference of 1780, the Last at Which the Writer Was Present

Why should I longer. Lord, contend,
My last important moments spend
In buffeting the air?
In warning those who will not see.
But rest in blind security,
And rush into the snare?

Prophet of ills why should I live,
Or by my sad forebodings grieve
Whom I can serve no more?
I only can their loss bewail
Till life's exhausted sorrows fail.
And the last pang is o'er.
Here then I quietly resign
Into those gracious hands Divine,
Whom I received from Thee,
My brethren and companions dear.
And finish with a parting tear
My useless ministry.
Detach'd from every creature now,
I humbly at Thy footstool bow,
Accepting my release;
If Thou the promised grace bestow.
Salvation to Thy servant show
And bid me die in peace.