The Raven, Eating Carrion, Disregards the Ark

HERE was I until year thirty-three,
When I found Jesus, who died for me;
Whose flesh is meat indeed, and heavenly bread,
To feed the members of their risen Head.

Till then I had not rest―yet knew not why
I had not peace, and would have feared to die;
I knew not then the grace of God had granted
That rest and peace in Jesus which I wanted.

I heard one preaching loudly of the doom
To hell and judgment, and eternal gloom
Of unregenerate men, who yet despise
The word which makes unto salvation wise.

Of Christ the Saviour from another heard,
His grace and life was taught me by a third;
How Jesus died, and why He then was raised:
This met my case, and I looked up and praised.

In a fourth Christian’s course, I found one who
Saw in his Saviour his example too;
His boast was in the Lord, his risen Head,
As very man who suffered in his stead.

I then believed redemption’s work so true,
That it could fully save a sinful crew
Of such as I, were they but found relying
On Jesus’ death, and what His end in dying.

And so referred my sins to Jesus’ blood,
A weight which more than counterpoised their load;
He recompensed for sin when on the tree,
That grace―not sin―might have the victory.

This is my rock―on this I take my stand,
Which popes and cardinals do count but sand;
The saints of old found that a sure foundation,
Which modern Roman priests count innovation.