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But here, commission’d by a black self-will,
The sons the father kill; The children chase the mother, and would heal
The wounds they give by crying zeale.
Then cast her bloud and tears upon thy book,
Where they for fashion look ; And, like that lamb which had the dragon's voice,
Seem mild, but are known by their noise.
Thus, by our lusts disorder'd into wars,
Our guides prove wandring stars, Which for these mists and black days were reserv'de
What time we from our first love swerv’d.
Yet O for His sake who sits now by thee
All crown'd with victory, So guide us through this darkness, that we may
Be more and more in love with day!
Settle and fix our hearts, that we may move
In order, peace, and love;
Become an humble, holy nation!
Give to thy spouse her perfect and pure dress,
Beauty and holiness ;
6 Where God is, all agree.”
SWEET, harmless lives ! on whose holy leisure
Waits innocence and pleasure, Whose leaders to those pastures and cleer springs
Were patriarchs, saints, and kings;
You only saw true light,
Without one thought of day?
Were pilgrims on those plains,
'Twas there first shown to you?
That serve him here below,
His love there first disclose;
No voice nor vision know;
Now languished and died,
While all her seers slept ;
Polluted through their fall;
Meer emptiness and show.
This made the angel call at reeds and thatch,
Yet where the shepheards watch,
To be a common kack ;
In those thin cels could lie;
Which never harbour'd plots;
Lived there without all noise;
Did in their bosomes play,
What springs or shades to look:
They for the town prepare;
All towards Bethlem walk
To bring all straglers home; Where now they find him out, and, taught before,
That Lamb of God adore; That Lamb whose daies great kings and prophets
And long'd to see, but miss’d. [wish'd The first light they beheld was bright and gay,
And turn’d their night to day ; But, to this later light they saw in him,
Their day was dark and dim.
LORD, bind me up, and let me lye
As waters here, headlong and loose,
. All unregarded, and thy book
dear God from my mind; Exclude him thence, who of that cell Would make a court, should he there dwell. He goes, he yields; and, troubled sore, His Holy Spirit grieves therefore; The mighty God, th' eternal King, Doth grieve for dust, and dust doth sing. But I go on, haste to divest Myself of reason, till opprest And buried in my surfeits, I Prove my own shame and miserie. Next day I call and cry for thee, Who shouldst not then come neer to me; But now it is thy servant's pleasure Thou must and dost give him his measure. Thou dost, thou com’st, and, in a shower Of healing sweets, thyself dost pour Into my wounds; and now thy grace (I know it well) fills all the place; I sit with thee by this new light, And for that hour thou’rt my delight; No man can more the world despise, Or thy great mercies better prize.