When man was lost, Thy pity looked about,
To see what help in the earth-or sky :
But there was none; at least no help without :
The help did in Thy bosom lie.
There lay Thy Son: and must He leave that nest,
That hive of sweetness, to remove
Thraldom for those, who would not at a feast
Leave one poor apple for Thy love?
O show Thyself, &c.
He did, He came : O my Redeemer dear,
After all this canst Thou be strange?
So many years baptized, and not appear;
As if Thy love could fail or change?
O show Thyself, &c.
Yet if Thou stayest still, why must I stay?
My God, what is this world to me?
This world of woe? hence, all ye clouds, away,
Away; I must get up and see.
What is this weary world; this meat and drink,
That chains us by the teeth so fast?
What is this woman-kind, which I can wink
Into a blackness and distaste?
With one small sigh Thou gavest me the other day
I blasted all the joys about me:
And scowling on them as they pined away,
Now come again, said I, and flout me.
O show Thyself, &c.
Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake, Which way soe'er I look, I see.
Some may dream merrily, but when they wake, They dress themselves and come to Thee. O show Thyself, &c.
We talk of harvests; there are no such things,
But when we leave our corn and hay :
There is no fruitful year, but that which brings
The last and loved, though dreadful day.
O show Thyself, &c.
O loose this frame, this knot of man untie,
That my free soul may use her wing,
Which now is pinioned with mortality,
As an entangled, hampered thing.
What have I left that I should stay and groan?
The most of me to heaven is fled :
My thoughts and joys are all packed up
And for their old acquaintance plead.
O show Thyself, &c.
Come, dearest Lord, pass not this holy season,
My flesh and bones and joints do pray :
And e'en my verse, when by the rhyme and reason
The word is, "Stay," says ever, "Come."
O show Thyself to me,
JOY, dear Mother, when I view
Thy perfect lineaments, and hue
Both sweet and bright:
Beauty in thee takes up her place,
And dates her letters from thy face,
When she doth write.
A fine aspect in fit array,
Neither too mean, nor yet too gay,
Shows who is best:
Outlandish looks may not compare;
For all they either painted are,
Or else undrest.
She on the hills, which wantonly
Allureth all in hope to be
By her preferred,
Hath kissed so long her painted shrines,
That e'en her face by kissing shines,
For her reward.
She in the valley is so shy
Of dressing, that her hair doth lie
About her ears:
While she avoids her neighbour's pride,
She wholly goes on the other side,
And nothing wears.
But, dearest Mother, (what those miss)
The mean thy praise and glory is,
And long may be.
Blessed be God, whose love it was
To double-moat thee with His grace,
And none but thee.
HE merry world did on a day
With his train-bands and mates agree
To meet together, where I lay,
And all in sport to jeer at me.
First, beauty crept into a rose;
Which when I pluckt not, Sir, said she,
Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then money came, and chinking still,
What tune is this, poor man? said he:
I heard in music you had skill:
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then came brave glory puffing by
In silks that whistled, who but he!
He scarce allowed me half an eye:
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then came quick wit and conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be,
And, to be short, make an oration,
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Yet when the hour of Thy design
To answer these fine things shall come;
Speak not at large, say, I am Thine,
And then they have their answer home.
Phose fat delights on earth do creep and grow:
OOR silly soul, whose hope and head lies low;
To whom the stars shine not so fair, as eyes;
Nor solid work, as false embroideries;
Hark and beware, lest what you now do measure,
And write for sweet, prove a most sour displeasure.
O hear betimes, lest thy relenting
May come too late!
To purchase heaven for repenting
Is no hard rate.
If souls be made of earthly mould,
Let them love gold;
If born on high,
Let them unto their kindred fly:
For they can never be at rest,
Till they regain their ancient nest.
Then silly soul, take heed; for earthly joy
Is but a bubble, and makes thee a boy.
WAKE sad heart, whom sorrow ever drowns:
Take up thine eyes, which feed on earth,
Unfold thy forehead gathered into frowns:
Thy Saviour comes, and with Him mirth:
Awake, awake;
And with a thankful heart His comforts take.
But thou dost still lament, and pine, and cry;
And feel His death, but not His victory.
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