To whom thy scythe a hatchet was,
Which now is but a pruning-knife.

Christ's coming hath made man thy debtor,
Since by thy cutting he grows better.

And in His blessing thou art blest;
For, where thou only wert before

An executioner at best,

Thou art a gardener now,

and more;

An usher to convey our souls
Beyond the utmost stars and poles.

And this is that makes life so long,
While it detains us from our God.
E'en pleasures here increase the wrong;

And length of days lengthen the rod.

Who wants the place where God doth dwell, Partakes already half of hell.

Of what strange length must that needs be
Which e'en eternity excludes !

Thus far, Time heard me patiently;

Then chafing said, This man deludes:

What do I hear before his door?

He doth not crave less time, but more.

GRATEFULNESS.

THOU that hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more, a grateful heart.
See how Thy beggar works on Thee
By art.

He makes Thy gifts occasion more,
And
says, if he in this be crost,
All Thou hast given him heretofore
Is lost.

But Thou didst reckon, when at first
Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,
What it would come to at the worst

To save.

Perpetual knockings at Thy door,
Tears sullying Thy transparent rooms,
Gift upon gift; much would have more,
And comes.

This not withstanding, Thou went'st on,
And didst allow us all our noise:

Nay, Thou hast made a sigh and groan
Thy joys.

J

Not that Thou hast not still above

Much better tunes than groans can make;

But that these country-airs Thy love
Did take.

Wherefore I cry, and cry again;
And in no quiet canst Thou be,
Till I a thankful heart obtain
Of Thee:

Not thankful, when it pleaseth me;
As if Thy blessings had spare days:
But such a heart, whose pulse may be

Thy praise.

PEACE.

SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly

crave,

Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And ask'd, if Peace were there. A hollow wind did seem to answer, No: Go seek elsewhere.

I did; and, going, did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peace's coat:

I will search out the matter.

But while I look'd, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower,

The crown imperial: Sure, said I,
Peace at the root must dwell.

But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour
What show'd so well.

At length I met a reverend, good old man ;
Whom when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began:

There was a Prince of old

At Salem dwelt, Who lived with good increase Of flock and fold.

He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes.

But, after death, out of His grave

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat: Which many wondering at, got some of those To plant and set.

It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the earth:

For they that taste it do rehearse,

That virtue lies therein;

A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth
By flight of sin.

Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
And grows for you;

Make bread of it: and that repose

And peace, which everywhere

With so much earnestness you do

Is only there.

pursue,

CONFESSION.

O WHAT a cunning guest
Is this same grief! within my heart I made
Closets, and in them many a chest ;
And, like a master in my trade,

In those chests, boxes; in each box, a till:
Yet grief knows all, and enters when he will.

No screw, no piercer can

Into a piece of timber work and wind,
As God's afflictions into man,

When He a torture hath design'd.

They are too subtle for the subtlest hearts; And fall, like rheums, upon the tenderest parts.

We are the earth; and they,

Like moles within us, heave, and cast about :
And till they foot and clutch their prey,
They never cool, much less give out.

No smith can make such locks, but they have

keys;

Closets are halls to them; and hearts, highways.