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, O could I track them! But souls must And now the spirit, not the dust, 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! II. It is in truth a ruin'd peece, And scarce a room, but wind and rain 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, 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. 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. |