Christs Reply

Peace, Peace, my Hony, do not Cry,
My Little Darling, wipe thine eye,
Oh Cheer, Cheer up, come see.
Is anything too deare, my Dove,
Is anything too good, my Love
To get or give for thee?

If in the severall thou art
This Yelper fierce will at thee bark:
That thou art mine this shows.
As Spot barks back the sheep again
Before they to the Pound are ta'ne,
So he and hence 'way goes.

But yet this Cur that bayghs so sore
Is broken tootht, and muzzled sure,
Fear not, my Pritty Heart.
His barking is to make thee Cling
Close underneath thy Saviours Wing.
Why did my sweeten start?

And if he run an inch too far,
I'le Check his Chain, and rate the Cur.
My Chick, keep clost to mee.
The Poles shall sooner kiss, and greet
And Paralells shall sooner meet
Than thou shalt harmed bee.

He seeks to aggrivate thy sin
And screw them to the highest pin,
To make thy faith to quaile.
Yet mountain Sins like mites should show
And then these mites for naught should goe
Could he but once prevaile.

I smote thy sins upon the Head.
They Dead'ned are, though not quite dead:
And shall not rise again.
I'l put away the Guilt thereof,
And purge its Filthiness cleare off:
My Blood doth out the stain.

And though thy judgment was remiss
Thy Headstrong Will too Wilfull is.
I will Renew the same.
And though thou do too frequently
Offend as heretofore hereby
I'l not severly blaim.

And though thy senses do inveagle
Thy Noble Soul to tend the Beagle,
That t'hunt her games forth go.
I'le Lure her back to me, and Change
Those fond Affections that do range
As yelping beagles doe.

Although thy sins increase their race,
And though when thou hast sought for Grace,
Thou fallst more than before
If thou by true Repentence Rise,
And Faith makes me thy Sacrifice,
I'l pardon all, though more.

Though Satan strive to block thy way
By all his Stratagems he may:
Come, come though through the fire.
For Hell that Gulph of fire for sins,
Is not so hot as t'burn thy Shins.
Then Credit not the Lyar.

Those Cursed Vermin Sins that Crawle
All ore thy Soul, both Greate, and small
Are onely Satans own:
Which he in his Malignity
Unto thy Souls true Sanctity
In at the doors hath thrown.

And though they be Rebellion high,
Ath'ism or Apostacy:
Though blasphemy it bee:
Unto what Quality, or Sise
Excepting one, so e're it rise.
Repent, I'le pardon thee.

Although thy Soule was once a Stall
Rich hung with Satans nicknacks all;
If thou Repent thy Sin,
A Tabernacle in't I'le place
Fild with Gods Spirit, and his Grace.
Oh Comfortable thing!

I dare the World therefore to show
A God like me, to anger slow:
Whose wrath is full of Grace.
Doth hate all Sins both Greate, and small:
Yet when Repented, pardons all.
Frowns with a Smiling Face.

As for thy outward Postures each,
Thy Gestures, Actions, and thy Speech,
I Eye and Eying spare,
If thou repent. My Grace is more
Ten thousand times still tribled ore
Than thou canst want, or ware.

As for the Wicked Charge he makes,
That he of Every Dish first takes
Of all thy holy things.
Its false, deny the same, and say,
That which he had he stool away
Out of thy Offerings.

Though to thy Griefe, poor Heart, thou finde
In Pray're too oft a wandring minde,
In Sermons Spirits dull.
Though faith in firy furnace flags,
And Zeale in Chilly Seasons lags.
Temptations powerfull.

These faults are his, and none of thine
So far as thou dost them decline.
Come then receive my Grace.
And when he buffits thee therefore
If thou my aid, and Grace implore
I'le shew a pleasant face.

But still look for Temptations Deep,
Whilst that thy Noble Sparke doth keep
Within a Mudwald Cote.
These White Frosts and the Showers that fall
Are but to whiten thee withall.
Not rot the Web they smote.

If in the fire where Gold is tride
Thy Soule is put, and purifide
Wilt thou lament thy loss?
If silver-like this fire refine
Thy Soul and make it brighter shine:
Wilt thou bewaile the Dross?

Oh! fight my Field: no Colours fear:
I'l be thy Front, I'l be thy reare.
Fail not: my Battells fight.
Defy the Tempter, and his Mock.
Anchor thy heart on mee thy Rock.
I do in thee Delight.
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