Wesley Corpus

But hath not heaven, who first bestow'd, A right to take his gifts away? I bow me to the sovereign God, Who snatch'd him from the evil day! Yet nature will repeat her moan, And fondly cry, "My son, my son!" Turn from him, turn, officious thought! Officious thought presents again The thousand little acts he wrought, Which wound my heart with soothing pain: His looks, his winning gestures rise, His waving hands, and laughing eyes! 34This multi-part hymn was written on the occasion of the death of John, the first child of Charles and Sarah Wesley. The first five parts can be found in MS Sarah Wesley (1754), copied in Sarah's hand, in the collection at Drew University (Wesley Family Letters 2135-6-4:70). Page 37 Those waving hands no more shall move, Those laughing eyes shall smile no more: He cannot now engage our love, With sweet insinuating power Our weak unguarded hearts insnare, And rival his Creator there. From us, as we from him, secure, Caught to his heavenly Father's breast, He waits, till we the bliss insure, From all these stormy sorrows rest, And see him with our angel stand, To waft, and welcome us to land. Hymn XXI. On the Death of a Child. Part II. Farewell, (since heaven ordains it so) Farewell, my yearning heart's desire! Stunn'd with the providential blow, And scarce beginning to respire, I own, and bow me in the dust, My God is good, and wise, and just. He justly claims the first-born son, Accepts my costly sacrifice, Dearest of all his gifts but one, At his command the victim dies! He but resumes what he had given, He takes my sacrifice to heaven. His wisdom tim'd the ling'ring stroke, The mother first resolv'd to save; The mother left, the child he took, Nor let them share a common grave; And still my better half survives, Joseph is dead, but Rachel lives. Page 38 His goodness towards us all design'd To save us from a world of care; He knew his pleading Spirit's mind, He heard in me his Spirit's prayer, And kindly hasten'd to remove The object of my fatal love. The searcher of my heart can tell How oft its fondness I withstood, When forc'd a father's joy to feel, I shrunk from the suspected good, Refus'd the perilous delight, And hid me from the pleasing sight.