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So o'er fled minutes I retreat

Unto that hour,
Which shew'd thee last, but did defeat

Thy light and pow'r.
I search, and rack my soul to see

Those beams again ;
But nothing but the snuff to me

Appeareth plain.
That, dark and dead, sleeps in its known

And common urn; 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

Find heaven and thee.



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.


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;


So that both stones and dust, and all of me,

Joyntly agree

To cry to thee;
And in this musick, by thy martyrs' bloud

Seald and made good,

Present, O God,
The eccho of these stones,
My sighes and grones !



O THOU! the first-fruits of the dead,

And their dark bed, When I am cast into that deep

And senseless sleep,


The wages of my sinne,

O then,
Thou great Preserver of all men,

Watch o’re that loose

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 ;

Yet thou,
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,

Drive thee from me.
Thou art the same, faithfull and just,

In life or dust.
Though then thus crumm'd I stray

In blasts,
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.

Yet he
Thy servant is, and waits on thee.

Cutt then the summe,

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

Quitting sadnesse,
Make me faire dayes of every night.

Affliction thus meere pleasure is ;

And hap what will,
If thou be in't, 'tis welcome still.

But since thy rayes
In sunnie dayes
Thou dost thus lend,

And freely spend,
Ah! what shall I return for this?


O that I were all soul! that thou

Wouldst make each part
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! and as they

Dissolve with it to clay,
Love languisheth, and memory doth rust

O'r-cast with that cold dust;
For things thus center'd, without beames or action,

Nor give nor take contaction; And man is such a marygold, these filed,

That shuts, and hangs the head,

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