In the garden of bliss begin
Two diadems of God
Bear the image of perfection
No thorns or pain to trod
But walking ancient serpent comes
Usurping royal command
Deceives the weaker vessel
Dispels them from the land
Evil thoughts invade their minds
Deeds of shame to act
Murder befalls a brother
From rejected worship lack
From these days and onward
History doth repeat
Pain and misery multiply
And righteousness deplete
Would the generations come
Rise above the mire?
Despondent rebels exercise
Some righteousness desire?
Ascent of man never came
Holiness ne’er be
Evasive of the Law’s demands
And thus continually
Alas! – Season of perfection full
The seed of woman come
Obliges requirements of the law
The grip of death succumb
A purchase of redemption made
Salvation full and true
From tribes, tongues, and nations some
Redeemed and given you
Not one to finally perish
Nor drift away for long
Spirit sealed and protected
Forever they belong
Kept, beloved, and protected
Against that coming day
When elements of earth doth vanish
And Jerusalem descends to stay
Unspeakable day unfolding just
Brightness eclipsing the sun
Revealing the face of our beloved Christ
The Champion of Heaven’s sons.
by Derek Melton
My spirits droop with illness now,
And yet I would submissive bow,
My heavenly Father, to thy will;
I would not breathe a single thought,
With discontent or murmur fraught.
But, suffering, own and love thee still.
And yet there is a pensive air
Steals o'er me ere I am aware.
And clasps me in its soft control;
A mildly melancholy mood,
Of sickness born, and solitude.
Sad and subduing to the soul.
At times I check the starting tear.
And think, my Father, thou art here.
And I am thine, forever thine;
Should blow succeed to chastening blow,
Thou art the very same, I know.
And future blessings dost design.
Whence, then, this sadness that I feel?
Why do these tears unbidden steal,
And on my better thoughts intrude?
Still must I weep? Then vanish, pride,
And let these tears be sanctified
By holy grief and gratitude.
Breathe, Holy Spirit! on my pain,
And I will weep o'er Jesus slain.
His sufferings for my sins I see.
When, in that dreary period
Of insult, agony, and blood.
He languished on the fatal tree.
He was no sufferer once! As God,
He saw me from his high abode,
Deep sunk in sin, and wo, and shame;
Compassion kindled with the look,
For me a servant's form he took,
And down to earth to save me came.
O, it might gush an angel's tear.
To see the Man of Sorrows dear.
Rejected and despised by men
For angels knew how rich before
He was in bliss, and what he bore
To bring me back to God again.
Melt then, my soul! 'Twas for thy guilt
Jesus' atoning blood was spilt;
He could not sink in suffering lower.
O, if thou hast one spark of love
To Him who left his throne above,
Go, weeping go, and sin no more.
by John Newton Brown
October 15, 1820.