Wesley Corpus

The thoughtless brute his master knows, And loves the hand that gives him food, But me, from whom their being flows, Sole author of their total good, Page 301 The Lord, and friend of all mankind My people have not sense to find. Duller than beasts the human herd, Tho' fed with blessings from above, My people pay me no regard, Nor own my providential love, Nor for their kind preserver care In whom they live, and move, and are. "Why should ye be stricken any more? Ye will revolt more and more." Isa. i. 5. Ah! Why should ye be stricken more? Seems our God to give us o'er, As past his reach of grace, When mercy's kind intent is crost, And all his chastisements are lost On such an harden'd race. "The whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint. From the sole of the foot, c." Isa. i. 5, 6. Corrupt alas, in every part, Sick the head, and faint the heart Thro' sin's severe disease! From head to foot the fallen man Is full of leprosy and pain, And desperate wickedness. Selfish, and proud, in mind and will Nature's loathsomness we feel Throughout our dying soul, Bruises, and wounds, and putrid sores, 'Till Gilead's bleeding balm restores, And Jesus speaks us whole. "Except the Lord of hosts had left unto us a very small remnant, we should have been as Sodom, and we should have been like unto Gomorrah." Isa. i. 9. Had not the Lord reserv'd a seed, A remnant sav'd by sovereign grace, His judgments shower'd upon our head, Had swallow'd up the British race,