To chapel oft they go and back,
In their old summer beaten track,
Where they the Holy Spirit grieve,
And pray for what they don’t believe.
Those preachers they like best to hear,
Whose doctrine is not too severe;
Who make no push extraordinary,
But tell their tale and let them be.
It happen’d on a certain day,
A stranger chanced to stroll that way;—
I’ll try to sketch him if I can,
Some call him an eccentric man.
One whom God’s Spirit had enlighten’d,
Whom his own sins had soundly frightened;
Who when by strong conviction pained,
Did pardon seek, which he obtained.
He knew he then accepted stood,
By faith in the atoning blood;
But saw the people’s sad condition,
And offer’d them his admonition.
A door was open in that place,
Where long had been the means of grace;
The means by many long neglected,
For fear they there should be detected.
A worthy woman there did live,
Who her advice did gratis give;
Who cared for both the flock and fold,
Like Deborah in days of old.
Like her she long had wish’d to see,
A glorious gospel victory;
And gave a friendly invitation,
To hear an extra exhortation.
The forms were set, and rostrum fix’d,
The preacher went and took his text:—
Sinners! your bleeding Saviour see,
He cries, “Ye will not come to me!”
He tried to tell what those shall win,
Who come to Christ and leave their sin;
How those shall fare in the great day,
Who all their life time stay away.