Classic Poem

prid, and humilyty.

T'was prid that hurl'd the angells down
From their high glorious station
How doe for ever, now lye bound
In cords, of desparation

The blessed angels, that stand fast
At said to vaill there faces
If thou wouldst have thy station last
Hold fast, this queen of graces

Wouldst thou be ranked in the row
Of those that humble are
A sight of god will lay thee low
To stir, prid will not dare

The soull that doth it self debase
Shall be set up on high
Whilst that the self exallting race
Shall on the dung hill lye

The humble soull, the Lord will make
His cecreets for to know
And such, shall of his grace pertake
Wher by apace, they grow

But those that love, & live in prid
He knows them afar off
And such with scorn, ar laid aside
god from From them stands aloof

Humilyty, will bring renown
When thou hast run thy race
It is the blessed angels crown
Who dayly see gods face

be willing then, to let thy name
Ly buried, in the dust
Thy god, will surely clear the same
And wipe off all the rust

Unto the praise of man, be deaf
Esteem it not att-all,
It is a sure presage of wrath
And thou art neer, a fall.

The devill, he is stil'd the king
Of the, Children of pride
This sin it will, all mischief bring
If it in thee, abide

Take-heed my soull, of cecreet pride
From man, thou mayst conceall't
But by thy god, t'will be espy'd
And he'l att last reveill it

Mans aprobation, will not steed thee
When thou must naked stand
Before the dreadfull god, to bee
Aquited, or condemn'd

The humble, contrite, broken, soull
Is gods own dwelling place
And he will give in, many a dole
To such seekers of grace

The kingdome of heaven is theirs
That poor in spirit bee
They ar the right, & lawfull heirs
Of that heritage free.

Such soulls ar calm under gods hand
They dare not once, rebell
Its mercy Lord, I'me not consum'd
I might have been in hell.

Now wouldst thou truly, humble bee
Then cast thine eyes within
And thou wilt quickly come to see
How black thou art by sin.

With holy law, compare thy hart
Vew thy self, in that glase
When thou dost see, how vile thou art
T'will make thee sore abash

Then thou wilt think, there's none like thee
In all the world abroad
And truly willing, thou wilt bee
Under foot, to be trod

Look to thy body, that's but clay
And thou must, shortly dye
Thy name, & fame, will soon decay
When thou in dust, shalt lye

Then pluck up pride Lord by the root
Which way thou seest fitt
Although thou tread me, under foot
I will not gainsay it

Humility's, a cov'nant grace
Thy promises, ar free
Tis that for which, I seek thy face
Lord, give itt, unto mee.