Classic Poem

How much more blest are trees then men,
Their boughes lopt off will grow agen;
But if the steele our limbs dissever,
The joynt once lost is lost for ever.
But fondly I dull foole complain,
Our members shall revive againe,
And thou poore finger that art dust
Before the other members, must
Returne as soon at heavens command,
And reunited be to th'hand,
As those that are not ashes yet;
Why doest thou then so envious sit,
And malice Oakes that they to fate
Are tenants of a longer date?
Their leases doe more years include
But once expir'd are nere renew'd.
Therefore dear finger though thou be
Cut from those muscles govern'd thee
And had thy motion at command,
Yet still as in a margent stand,
To point my thoughts to fix upon
The hope of Ressurrection:
And since thou canst no finger be,
Be a deaths head to humble me,
Till death doth threat her sting in vaine,
And we in heaven shake hands againe.