Of what unmeasurable love

Art Thou possest, Who, when Thou couldst not die, Wert fain to take our flesh and curse,

And for our sakes in person sinne reprove;

That by destroying that which ty'd Thy purse,
Thou mightst make way for liberalitie!

Since, then, these three wait on Thy throne,

Ease, Power, and Love, I value Prayer so,
That were I to leave all but one,

Wealth, fame, endowments, vertues, all should go;
I and deare Prayer would together dwell,

And quickly gain for each inch lost an ell.

77. OBEDIENCE.

My God, if writings may

Convey a lordship any way.

Whither the buyer and the seller please,
Let it not Thee displease

If this poore paper do as much as they.

Το

On it my heart doth bleed

As many lines as there doth need
itself and all it hath to Thee;
To which I do agree,

passe

And here present it as my speciall deed.

If that hereafter Pleasure

Cavill, and claim her part and measure,

As if this passed with a reservation,

Or some such words in fashon,

I here shutt out the wrangler from Thy treasure.

O, let Thy sacred will

All Thy delight in me fulfill!

Let me not think an action mine own way,
But as Thy love shall sway,

Resigning up the rudder to Thy skill.

Lord, what is man to Thee,

That Thou shouldst minde a rotten tree!

Yet since Thou canst not choose but see my actions,

So great are Thy perfections,

Thou mayst as well my actions guide as see.

Besides, Thy death and bloud
Show'd a strange love to all our good;

Thy sorrows were in earnest, no faint proffer,
Or superficial offer

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Of what we might not take or be withstood.

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Wherefore I all forego:

To one word onely I say, No;

Where in the deed there was an intimation

Of a gift or donation,

Lord, let it now by way of purchase go.

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He that will passe his land,

As I have mine, may set his hand

And heart unto this deed, when he hath read,

And make the purchase spread

To both our goods, if he to it will stand.

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How happie were my part,

If some kinde man would thrust his heart

Into these lines, till in heav'n's Court of Rolls
They were by winged souls

Entred for both, farre above their desert!

78.¶CONSCIENCE.

Peace, pratler, do not lowre:

Not a fair look but thou dost call it foul,
Not a sweet dish but thou dost call it sowre;
Musick to thee doth howl.

By list'ning to thy chatting fears

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I have both lost mine eyes

and eares.

Pratler, no more, I say;

My thoughts must work, but like a noiselesse sphere; Harmonious peace must rock them all the day,

No room for pratlers there.

If thou persistest, I will tell thee
That I have physick to expell thee.

And the receit shall be

My Saviour's bloud: whenever at His board
I do but taste it, straight it cleanseth me,
And leaves thee not a word;

No, not a tooth or nail to scratch,
And at my actions carp or catch.

Yet if thou talkest still,

Besides my physick know there's some for thee;

ΤΟ

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Some wood and nails to make a staffe or bill
For those that trouble me:

The bloudie crosse of my deare Lord

Is both my physick and my sword.

79.¶SION.

Lord, with what glorie wast Thou serv'd of old,
When Solomon's temple stood and flourished!

Where most things were of purest gold,
The wood was all embellished
With flowers and carvings mysticall and rare;
All show'd the builders crav'd the seer's care.
Yet all this glorie, all this pomp and state,
Did not affect Thee much, was not Thy aim:
Something there was that sow'd debate;
Wherefore Thou quit'st Thy ancient claim,

And now Thy architecture meets with sinne,
For all Thy frame and fabrick is within.

There Thou art struggling with a peevish heart,
Which sometimes crosseth Thee, Thou sometimes it;
The fight is hard on either part:

Great God doth fight, He doth submit.

All Solomon's sea of brasse and world of stone

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Is not so deare to Thee as one good grone. 1 Kings vii. 23

And truly brasse and stones are heavie things-
Tombes for the dead, not temples fit for Thee;
But grones are quick, and full of wings,
And all their motions upward be;

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And ever as they mount like larks they sing;
The note is sad, yet inusick for a king.

80. ¶ HOME.

Come, Lord, my head doth burn, my heart is sick,
While Thou dost ever, ever stay;

Thy long deferrings wound me to the quick,

My spirit gaspeth night and day:

O, show Thyself to me,

Or take me up to Thee!

How canst Thou stay, considering the pace

The bloud did make which Thou didst waste?

When I behold it trickling down Thy face,

I never saw thing make such haste :
O, show Thyself to me,

Or take me up to Thee!

When man was lost, Thy pitie lookt about

To see what help in th' earth or skie; But there was none, at least no help without;

The help did in Thy bosom lie:

O, show Thyself to me,

Or take me up to Thee!

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ΙΟ

Is. lxiii. 5

There lay Thy Sonne; and must He leave that nest,
That hive of sweetnesse, to remove
Thraldome from those who would not at a feast

Leave one poore apple for Thy love?
O, show Thyself to me,

VOL. I.

Or take me up to Thee!

?

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