O Thou! the first fruits of the dead,
And their dark bed,
When I am cast into that deep
And senseless sleep
The wages of my sinne,
O then,
Thou great Preserver of all men!
Watch o're that loose
And empty house,
Which I sometimes liv'd in.

It is (in truth!) a ruin'd peece
Not worth thy Eyes,
And scarce a room but wind, and rain
Beat through, and stain
The seats, and Cells within;
Yet thou
Led by thy Love wouldst stoop thus low,
And in this Cott
All filth, and spott,
Didst with thy servant Inne.

And nothing can, I hourely see,
Drive thee from me,
Thou art the same, faithfull, and just
In life, or Dust;
Though then (thus crumm'd) I stray
In blasts,
Or Exhalations, and wasts
Beyond all Eyes
Yet thy love spies
That Change, and knows thy Clay.

The world's thy boxe: how then (there tost,)
Can I be lost?
But the delay is all; Tyme now
Is old, and slow,
His wings are dull, and sickly;
Yet he
Thy servant is, and waits on thee,
Cutt then the summe,
Lord haste, Lord come,
O come Lord Jesus quickly!