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Affront those joys, wherewith thou didst endow,
And long since wed
It may a Babel prove,
Planted in me.
Who is the honest man ?
Whom neither force nor fawning can
Whose honesty is not
Who rides his sure and even trot,
Who, when great trials come,
All being brought into a sum,
Whom none can work or woo, To use in any thing a trick or sleight; For above all things he abhors deceit :
His words and works and fashion too All of a piece, and all are clear and straight.
Who never melts or thaws
The sun to others writeth laws,
Who, when he is to treat
Whom others' faults do not defeat ;
Whom nothing can procure, When the wide world runs bias, from his will To writhe his limbs, and share, not mend the ill.
This is the Marksman, safe and sure, Who still is right, and prays to be so still.
My heart did heave, and there came forth, O God!
Making a sceptre of the rod :
Hadst thou not had thy part, Sure the unruly sigh had broke my heart.
But since thy breath gave me both life and shape, Thou know'st my tallies ; and when there's assign'd So much breath to a sigh, what's then behind ?
Or if some years with it escape,
The sigh then only is
Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art still
And in thy members suffer ill.
They who lament one cross, Thou dying daily, praise thee to thy loss.
BRIGHT spark, shot from a brighter place, Where beams surround my Saviour's face, Canst thou be any where
So well as there?
Yet, if thou wilt from thence depart,
And make it better.
First with thy fire-work burn to dust
And make it shine.
So disengaged from sin and sickness,
After thy love.
Then with our trinity of light,
Before didst bow.
Get me a standing there, and place
Sin and my heart :
That so among the rest I may
O DAY most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world's bud, Th’indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his blood; The couch of time; care's balm and bay; The week were dark, but for thy light:
Thy Torch doth show the way.
The other days and thou
Till thy release appear.
Man had straight forward gone
The which he doth not fill.
Sundays the pillars are,
Which parts their ranks and orders.
The Sundays of man's life,
More plentiful than hope.
This day my Saviour rose,
Who want herbs for their wound.
The Rest of our Creation Our great Redeemer did remove