  It has always been thought a most critical case, When a man was possessed of more Nature than Grace; For Theology teaches that man from the first Was a sinner by Nature, and justly accurst; And “Salvation by Grace” was the wonderful plan, Which God had invented to save erring man. ’Twas the only atonement he knew how to make, To annul the effects of his own sad mistake. Now this was the doctrine of good Parson Brown, Who preached, not long since, in a small country town. He was zealous, and earnest, and could so excel In describing the tortures of sinners in Hell, That a famous revival commenced in the place, And hundreds of souls found “Salvation by Grace;” But he felt that he had not attained his desire, Till he had converted one Peter McGuire. This man was a blacksmith, frank, fearless and bold, With great brawny sinews like Vulcan of old; He had little respect for what ministers preach, And sometimes was very profane in his speech. His opinions were founded in clear common sense, And he spoke as he thought, though he oft gave offense; But however wanting, in whole or in part, He was sound, and all right, when you came to his heart. One day the good parson, with pious intent, To the smithy of Peter most hopefully went; And there, while the hammer industriously swung, He preached, and he prayed, and exhorted, and sung, And warned, and entreated poor Peter to fly From the pit of destruction before he should die; And to wash himself clean from the world’s sinful strife, In the Blood of the Lamb, and the River of Life. Well, and what would you now be inclined to expect Was the probable issue and likely effect? From a little black bottle took something to drink! And he said, “I’ll not mention the Blood of the Lamb, But as for that River it aren’t worth a——;” Then pausing—as if to restrain his rude force— He quietly added, “a mill-dam, of course.” Quick out of the smithy the minister fled, As if a big bomb-shell had burst near his head; And as he continued to haste on his way, He was too much excited to sing or to pray; But he thought how that some were elected by Grace, As heirs of the kingdom—made sure of their place— While others were doomed to the pains of Hell-*fire, And if e’er there was one such, ’twas Peter McGuire. That night, when the Storm King was riding on high, And the red shafts of lightning gleamed bright through the sky, Was struck, for the want of a good lightning rod, And swiftly descending, the element dire Set the minister’s house, close beside it, on fire, While he peacefully slumbered, with never a fear Of the terrible work of destruction so near. There were Mary, and Hannah, and Tommy, and Joe, All sweetly asleep in the bedroom below, While their father was near, with their mother at rest, (Like the wife of John Rogers with “one at the breast.”) But Alice, the eldest, a gentle young dove, Was asleep all alone, in the room just above; And when the wild cry of the rescuer came, She only was left to the pitiless flame. The fond mother counted her treasures of love, When lo! one was missing—“O Father above!” How madly she shrieked in her agony wild— “My Alice! My Alice! O, save my dear child!” Then down on his knees fell the Parson, and prayed That the terrible wrath of the Lord might be stayed. But then it don’t suit this particular case.” He turned down the sleeves of his red flannel shirt, To shield his great arms all besmutted with dirt; Then into the billows of smoke and of fire, Not pausing an instant, dashed Peter McGuire. O, that terrible moment of anxious suspense! How breathless their watching! their fear how intense! And then their great joy! which was freely expressed When Peter appeared with the child on his breast. A shout rent the air when the darling he laid In the arms of her mother, so pale and dismayed; And as Alice looked up and most gratefully smiled, He bowed down his head and he wept like a child. O, those tears of brave manhood that rained o’er his face, Showed the true Grace of Nature, and the Nature of Grace; ’Twas a manifest token, a visible sign, Of the indwelling life of the Spirit Divine. Preach of “total depravity” innate in man. Talk of blasphemy! why, ’tis profanity wild! To say that the Father thus cursed his own child. Go learn of the stars, and the dew-spangled sod, That all things rejoice in the goodness of God— That each thing created is good in its place, And Nature is but the expression of Grace. |
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