So o'er fled minutes I retreat Unto that hour, Which shew'd thee last, but did defeat I search, and rack my soul to see But nothing but the snuff to me That, dark and dead, sleeps in its known But those, fled to their Maker's throne, There shine and burn. O could I track them! But souls must Track one the other; And now the spirit, not the dust, Must be thy brother. Yet I have one pearle, by whose light All things I see; And in the heart of earth and night CHURCH SERVICE. I. BLEST be the God of harmony and love! The God above! And holy Dove! Whose interceding, spirituall grones Make restless mones For dust and stones; For dust in every part, But a hard, stonie heart. II. O how in this thy quire of souls I stand, Propt by thy hand,. A heap of sand! [quite, Which busie thoughts, like winds, would scatter And put to flight, But for thy might; Thy hand alone doth tame Those blasts, and knit my frame; III. So that both stones and dust, and all of me, Joyntly agree To cry to thee; And in this musick, by thy martyrs' bloud Present, O God, The eccho of these stones, BURIALL. I. O THOU! the first-fruits of the dead, And their dark bed, When I am cast into that deep And senseless sleep, H The wages of my sinne, Thou great Preserver of all men, And empty house, Which I sometimes liv'd in! Not worth thy eyes; And scarce a room, but wind and rain Beat through and stain The seats, and cells within ; Yet thou, Led by thy love, wouldst stoop thus low, And in this cott, All filth and spott, Didst with thy servant inne. III. And nothing can, I hourely see, Thou art the same, faithfull and just, Though then thus crumm'd I stray Or exhalations and wasts, Beyond all eyes Yet thy love spies That change, and knows thy clay. IV. The world's thy boxe: how then, there tost, But the delay is all; tyme now Is old and slow; His wings are dull and sickly. Thy servant is, and waits on thee. Lord, haste, Lord, come, O come, Lord Jesus, quickly! Rom. viii. 23. And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the first-fruits of the spirit, even wee ourselves grone within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body. II. Affliction thus meere pleasure is; If thou be in't, 'tis welcome still. In sunnie dayes Thou dost thus lend, And freely spend, Ah! what shall I return for this? III. O that I were all soul! that thou Of this poor sinfull frame pure heart! Then would I drown My single one; And to thy praise A concert raise Of hallelujahs here below. SURE, THERE'S A TYE OF BODYES. I. SURE, there's a tye of bodyes! and as they Love languisheth, and memory doth rust For things thus center'd, without beames or action, And man is such a marygold, these fled, That shuts, and hangs the head, |