THE DEATH OF CHRIST.

BY JOH BUSTAED.
'Tis finished!" the Saviour cried,
Then bow'd His sacred head and died ;
And now redemptions work is done,
The darkness flees which veil'd the sun.
The temple's veil is rent in twain,
And earth appears convuls'd with pain ;
While rocks are rended by her throes
And opening graves their dead disclose.
Is this to shew their sympathy ?
O weep, my soul, He dies for thee !
View not thy dying Lord unmov'd,
Lest thou, by nature be reprov'd.
Or, is it thus, that nature shows
The blessings which His death bestows ?
My dying Lord, Thy light impart,
Chase nature's darkness from my heart.
Shake now my guilty soul with fear,
And bid my numerous sins appear ;
But rend the veil, reveal the throne,
Where Thou dost make Thy mercy known.
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