HYMN XI.
BEhold our well-beloved's come,
more excellent than mounts of prey;
Or'e mighty Hills of Unbelief,
and guilt of Sin, he pav'd his way.
He like the Roe has nimbly trip't
to shew to us his glorious Face;
And thro' the Lettice of his Flesh
darts down on us his Fathers Grace.
Hark! hark! how our beloved speaks,
what ravishing! what melting Voice!
He says, Rise up my Love, my fair,
mine and my Fathers only choice.
Rise up my fairest, come away,
rise, follow me, Dove, without fear;
The Dark distressing Winter's o're,
the pleasant Spring does now appear.
The Birds do sing, my Children ring
most joyous peals of my free Grace;
The Flowers appear, their Graces are
most shining bright each in its place.
The Turtles Voice is in our Land;
the des late Gospel does break forth
To singing in the midst of you,
and causes many a heav'nly Birth.