A FACT
Recorded in the Evangelical Magazine,
FOR JULY 1812.
Lately I heard a paper read—
O! were it blessed to me for good!
I felt it as the writer did,
And awful horror chill’d my blood!
Four criminals were to justice brought,
But none of them of harden’d mind;
They view’d their state as sinners ought,
And were to serious thoughts inclin’d.
Of every comfort long depriv’d,
In gloomy dungeon they did moan;
At last the dreadful day arriv’d,
When life must for their crimes atone.
When standing on the scaffold boards,
The gazing multitude to teach;
Each made in solemn warning words,
A simple, but impressive, speech.
Entreating all to shun each crime,
Which God and man have doom’d to wrath,
Which leads to punishment in time,
And tends to everlasting death.
If once associates in guilt,
Now friends in sad affliction, they,
To press each others hands they felt,
Before the scaffold boards gave way.
O! let me hasten to a close—
Poor Atkinson in turning round,
The shifting rope did so dispose,
That death long sought could not be found.
Hanging in air—(Oh! dreadful state!)
He utter’d a most piercing cry:
His words were (awful to relate!)
“O God! O God! I cannot die!”
The sufferer was soon reliev’d;
’Twas merciful to speed his doom;—
But be this truth by all believ’d,
For all of us may bring it home.
Yes!—we immortal souls possess,
(Whoever may this truth deny;)
Which shall in endless woe, or bliss,
For ever live, and cannot die.
Proud infidel, be mute, be mute,—
Nor longer injur’d heav’n incense;
Lest awful vengeance thee refute,
And hurry thee blaspheming hence,
To where thou’lt own,—(but ah! too late,)
That all thy boasting was a lie;
For ever fix’d, thy dismal state,
Live, feel thou must—but cannot die.
Even wert thou right, where is thy gain?
When thou art nothing, all is lost;
In drear annihilation’s reign,
Will it be known how big thy boast?
But wrong, O think,—what fury breaks,
On miserable thee to fall;
An error there, of all mistakes,
Will dreadful be, and past recall.
O trust the word of truth reveal’d,
And testimony of the good;
The Sacred Book to thee is seal’d,
And mock’d, because not understood.
Stout-hearted man, let pride no more,
Or vice estrange thy soul from God!
Improve his word, his grace implore,
’Tis promis’d and will be bestow’d.
O! thou who kindly lead’st the blind,
In ways themselves could never trace;
In mercy guide each humble mind,
And teach the path to endless peace;
It will enhance the boundless bliss,
Of all whose names are wrote on high;
That they shall ever see thy face,
In love, assur’d they cannot die.