« AnteriorContinuar »
So o'er fled minutes I retreat
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
And in the heart of earth and night
BLEST be the God of harmony and love!
The God above!
And holy Dove!
Whose interceding, spirituall grones
Make restless mones
O how in this thy quire of souls I stand,
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;
So that both stones and dust, and all of me,
To cry to thee;
And in this musick, by thy martyrs' bloud
The eccho of these stones,
O THOU! the first-fruits of the dead,
When I am cast into that deep
And senseless sleep,
The wages of my sinne,
Thou great Preserver of all men,
And empty house,
Which I sometimes liv'd in!
It is in truth a ruin'd peece,
Not worth thy eyes;
And scarce a room, but wind and rain
Beat through and stain
The seats, and cells within;
Led by thy love, wouldst stoop thus low,
And in this cott,
All filth and spott,
Didst with thy servant inne.
And nothing can, I hourely see,
Thou art the same, faithfull and just,
In life or dust.
Though then thus crumm'd I stray
Or exhalations and wasts,
Beyond all eyes
Yet thy love spies
That change, and knows thy clay.
The world's thy boxe: how then, there tost,
Can I be lost?
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.
LORD, with what courage and delight
I doe each thing,
When thy least breath sustaines my wing!
I shine and move
Like those above,
And, with much gladnesse
Make me faire dayes of every night.
Affliction thus meere pleasure is;
If thou be in't, 'tis welcome still.
But since thy rayeṣ
Thou dost thus lend,
And freely spend,
Ah! what shall I return for this?
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
Of hallelujahs here below.
SURE, THERE'S A TYE OF BODYES.
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, Nor give nor take contaction;
And man is such a marygold, these fled,
That shuts, and hangs the head,