English

spirituall sloth the souls ruine

What cause have we, for to bewaill
Thesse slothfull harts, which we do traile
About with us, whilst we ar here
Were it not for our listlesnese
wee might enjoy, a fivefold mese
Of heavens sweet, and blessed chear

And come, to have a tast, and sight
Of that angellicall, delight
And thosse seraphik joys above
which we shall have, when get we shall
To'th vision beautificall
When we out of this world remove

How might the soull most sweetly spring

Temptation vanquished

Doth Saten tell thee, that thy god
rejects thy confidence
Beleive him not, he still doth plod
To take away thy fence

That he may have, a free egrese
to doe thee greater harm
And thee, of comfort disposese
by this, his subtle charm

Thou mayst tell Saten he doth lye
the god of truth hath said
Hee that beleives, shall never dye
or have his hope, frustrate

Thosse that doe in Jehovah trust
shall as mount Sion stand
Which cant be removed but must

The soull reaching out after an neerer communion, & higher atainments. June 26 72

It never is so well endeed, with me
As when I can be creeping neer, to thee
Thou knowst my god, I can but creep at best
yet till I am with thee, I find no rest
It is my Leasurely, dull, creeping, pace
That is my greatest trouble, in my race
Great measures of thy grace, I would here gain
And unto high degrees. I would attain
I would have heaven always shine in my
Converse, & dayly walking, to each eye

From dark, and cloudy providences, upon the church, & people of god. June 25 72

Shall wee, our father angry see
And shall we, unconcerned bee
Oh shall we not, be sore afraid
When we doe see, the rod is laid
On others, whilst we ar as much,
Or rather more, in fault then such
Who have already smarted by
The hand of him, who dwells, on high
Whilst we doe know our selfs as deep
In giult, shall we not att thy feet
Throw our selfs down, and lye prostrate
Untill thou shalt comiserate

The soull expostulating with it self because of anxtious thoughts.

What meanst thou thus my soull to rove
From god, by vanity
Who is the object of thy love
wher thou mayst fix thine eye.

Why porst thou on afliction
before itt come att thee
Why dost tormentingly, think on
thosse things, that nere may be.

Do but believe, and thou art safe
all things ar for thee best
Art tossed by a bousterous wave
t'shall waft thee, to thy rest.

Why dost thou take up one hard thought

Our dependency upon. and beholdingnese to free grace.

When'th Sun removes up from the earth
On hearbs, and trees ther is a dearth
The sap, to the root, descending
no nourishment, from thence doth spring
And speedyly
the branches dye.

Thus is it Lord, with my poor soull
When thou, on whom, it hath its whole
Dependance, goest away from it
And tak'st away, thy sweet spirit
I soon decay
and fade away.

I am like unto one, that's dead
When thou away, from me, art fled

The soull desiring still to have that presented to its eye. as may, make it swiftly towards heaven.

An ernest peny give me still
of the inheritance
That I with joy, may climb that hill
and speedily advance.

Let me by faith, discern the goal
for an encouragement
Unto my tired, weary, soull
in its craky, ascent.

Hold forth, to me, the glor'ous crown
that I may restlese be
And never stand still, or sit down
untill thou give it me.

But above all, still let me veiw
The beauty, of my king

Satens polycy and enmity. June 22 72

Oh what a subtle enemy
Is Saten, who doth alway pry.

About to see wher he may lurk
And cuningly his mischief work.

He still doth search, & hunt about
If he can but, a hole find out.

He will at the ungaurded part
Be sure to creep, into the hart.

And if possesion he doe get
Hee doth soe strongly, us beset

That out he'l not be, got again
But more, & more, he strives to reign.

Wee may of him truly foretell

YEA .

And what if all the death, and all the dolor
Do but imbue with life of lustrous colour
Alien natures? if the blood we bled
Grow substance of another heart full-fed?
Thrice aureoled the sacrificial Lamb,
Rolled in a fair victorious oriflamme
Of His own slaughter! fiery pangs of glory,
Wherein a life dissolves to blend one story
With God's world-triumph, so alone fulfilling
True personal being, through the ordeal killing
Mere individual semblance of an hour;

I. — Nay .

How may we trust Thee, Majesty Supreme!
We whose dim life fleets by, an idle dream,
Amid the ruining welter, and the wash
Of shattered Faiths, and holiest Hopes that flash
To annihilation in a moment, or slow wane,
Till what lay desert desert lies again,
Fooled for an hour with visions of ripe grain,
Withered ere harvest! Oh, the weary round
Of life and death halting within a bound
Of adamant, and fluctuating, ever
Goaded to dissonant, impotent endeavour!
Warring, we swarm to scale a phantom height,