Upon My Brother's Book Called, The Grounds, Labour, and Reward of Faith
This lamp fill'd up, and fir'd by that blest Spirit,
Spent his last oyl in this pure heav'nly flame;
Laying the grounds, walls, roof of faith: this frame
With life he ends; and now doth there inherit
What here he built, crown'd with his laurel merit:
Whose palms and triumphs once he loudly rang,
There now enjoyes what here he sweetly sang.
This is his monument, on which he drew
His spirits image, that can never die;
But breathes in these 'live words, and speaks to th' eye:
In these his winding-sheets he dead doth shew
To buried souls the way to live anew,
And in his grave more powerfully now preacheth.
Who will not learn, when that a dead man teacheth?
Spent his last oyl in this pure heav'nly flame;
Laying the grounds, walls, roof of faith: this frame
With life he ends; and now doth there inherit
What here he built, crown'd with his laurel merit:
Whose palms and triumphs once he loudly rang,
There now enjoyes what here he sweetly sang.
This is his monument, on which he drew
His spirits image, that can never die;
But breathes in these 'live words, and speaks to th' eye:
In these his winding-sheets he dead doth shew
To buried souls the way to live anew,
And in his grave more powerfully now preacheth.
Who will not learn, when that a dead man teacheth?
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