Erskine, thou blessed herald sound,
Till sin's black empire totter to the ground.
Well hast thou Sinai's awful flames display'd
And rebel's doom before their conscience laid:
From sin, from self, from trust in duty fly,
Commit thy naked soul to Christ, or die.
Go on and prosper in the name of God,
Seraphic preacher, through the thorny road;
The gracious Christ thy labours will reward:
His angel bands be thy perpetual guard;
Though hell's dark regions at the present hiss,
The God of glory thy strong refuge is.
Mere moral preachers have no power to charm
Thy lines are such my nobler passions warm;
These glorious truths have set my soul on fire,
And while I read, I'm love and pure desire.
May the black train of errors hatch'd in hell
No longer on this globe in quiet dwell;
May more like you be rais'd to show their shame,
And call them by their diabolic name.
Exalt the Lamb in lovely white and red,
Angels and saints his lasting honours spread;
My trembling soul shall bear her feeble part,
'Tis he hath charm'd my soul and won my heart,
Bless'd be the Father for electing love,
Bless'd be the Son who does my guilt remove,
Bless'd be the Dove who does his grace apply.
Oh! may I praising live, and praising die!