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The New Zealand Evangelist

Poetry — Puseyism, Or Protestant Popery,


Puseyism, Or Protestant Popery,

Storms are gathering in the sky;
Vengeful Thunders hover nigh;
Plague spots in the church appear,
Filling every heart with fear.
She must drink the cup of woe,
Shame and sorrow she must know;
She is wandering from her God,
On her brow write “Ichabod.”
Mystic fingers on the wall
Trace her sin, and bode her fall;
Warning voices through the gloom,
Tell us of her coming doom.
Priestcraft, with a giant stride,
Stalks the land in pomp and pride;
He who should preach only Christ,
Now a semi-papal priest,
Would the Church's Lord appear,
Not its lowly minister;
Calling all men great and small,
Down before the priest to fall.
page 133 Priests forgetting, in their pride,
Him who as our ransom died,
Bid us on our works depend,
Not on Christ, the sinner's friend.
None the Bible now must read,
Till the priest has fixed our creed;
None must rest on Christ alone,
Till the priest his work has done.
Sacraments the priest extols.
For tis he each rite controls;
Thought to freedom is allied,
Therefore preaching's set aside;
Fonts and altars soon must teach;
Priests should sacrifice, not preach;
Priests, they say, can intercede,
In our hour of guilt and need.
Priests, ambassadors of heaven,
Can pronounce our sins forgiven—
Since, whate'er their want of sense,
They the gift of grace dispense;
And, ordained by Heaven, possess
Apostolic power to bless.
Priests the Monarch's Throne outshine,
By a dignity Divine;
What compared with these, are kings?
Dynasties but mushroom things;
Priests had won their rightful throne,
Ere the crown of England shone;
They had risen to princely state,
Long ere England's Senate sate;
And when empires pass away,
They shall hold their steadfast sway.
Devotees around them wait,
To exalt their lordly state.
See them sit in chancels proud,
High above the vulgar crowd;
See them, when the prayers they say,
From the people turn away,
Muttering hidden words of prayer,
That the vulgar may not share:
Then at altars rich and high,
page 134 Bow and cross, we know not why,
What is wanting? incense bring;
Morn by morn the matins sing;
Faldstool and sedilia place;
Hang upon the alter lace;
There the dying figure fix;
Knelt before by Catholics;
Then dispense the wafer bread;
Say due masses for the dead;
Chaunt the dirges slow and sad;
Sacred copes and banners add;
Candlesticks with glittering gloss;
Credence table rich veredos;
Pictures round the table set,
Then the show will be complete.
Woe to thee, my country, woe;
Thou canst bear this Papal show;
Thou, canst tamely sit and see
This advancing mummery;
Forms exalted to the skies,
While God's word dishonoured lies;
Rome is fondled as a child,
Martyrs scorned and saints reviled;
Truth is bound with priestly chain,
Charity and candour slain;
Pastors who their country warn,
From their grieving flocks are torn.
From the Church they loved at heart,
Crowds indignantly depart;
While triumphant errors stand
Lords of the bewildered land.
Oh, for an hour of Luther now!
Oh, for a frown of Calvin's brow!
Once they broke the Papal chain,—
Who shall break it now again?
Lord, thou seest us weak and cold;
Rise, as in the days of old;
Bare thine own almighty arm,
Save the Church from every harm;
And may truth the victory win
Over falsehood, fraud, and sin.