Things present shrink and die: but they that spend On future grief, do not remove it thence, And draw the bottom out an end. God chains the dog till night: wilt loose the chain, And wake thy sorrow? Wilt thou forestall it, and now grieve to-morrow, And then again Grieve over freshly all thy pain? Either grief will not come or if it must, And while it cometh, it is almost past. My God hath promised; he is just. CXVII. PRAISE. KING of glory, King of peace, I will love thee: And that love may never cease, Thou hast granted my request, Thou hast heard me: Thou didst note my working breast, Thou hast spared me. Wherefore with my utmost art I will sing thee, And the cream of all my heart Though my sins against me cried, And alone, when they replied, Thou didst hear me. Seven whole days, not one in seven, In my heart, though not in Heaven, Thou grew'st soft and moist with tears, And when Justice call'd for fears, Thou dissentedst. Small it is, in this poor sort To enrol thee: E'en eternity is too short To extol thee. CXVIII. AN OFFERING. COME, bring thy gift. If blessings were as slow O that within us hearts had propagation, Since many gifts do challenge many hearts! if good, may title to a number; Yet one, And single things grow fruitful by deserts. But all I fear is, lest thy heart displease, [close There is a balsam, or indeed a blood, Until thou find, and use it to thy good : Then bring thy gift; and let thy hymn be this; WITH sick and famish'd eyes, With doubling knees and weary bones, To thee my cries, To thee my groans, To thee my sighs, my tears ascend: No end? My throat, my soul is hoarse; My heart is wither'd like a ground Which thou dost curse. My thoughts turn round, And make me giddy; Lord, I fall, Yet call. From thee all pity flows. Mothers are kind, because thou art, And dost dispose To them a part: Their infants, them; and they suck thee More free. Bowels of pity, hear! Lord of my soul, love of my mind, Bow down thine ear! Let not the wind Scatter my words, and in the same Thy name! Look on my sorrows round! Mark well my furnace! O what flames, What heats abound! What griefs, what shames! Consider, Lord; Lord, bow thine ear, And hear! Lord Jesu, thou didst bow Thy dying head upon the tree: O be not now More dead to me! Lord, hear! Shall he that made the ear Not hear? Behold, thy dust doth stir; It moves, it creeps, it aims at thee : Wilt thou defer To succour me, Thy pile of dust, wherein each crumb Says, Come? To thee help appertains. Hast thou left all things to their course, And laid the reins Upon the horse? Is all lock'd? hath a sinner's plea No key? |