Classic Poem

The man is blest which can indure,
Whose hart doth never slide,
When for his sinne, with fierie scourge,
His patience shal be tride.
No daunting feare can once attainte,
The conscience that is cleare:
The wicked waile that have no faith,
When dangers doe appeare.
The rod that doth correct our life,
And sinfull waies reprove,
Is said, to be a certaine signe
Of Gods eternall love.
No tempting tryall from the Lord,
No griefe or dire annoye,
Can sever once the faithfull hart,
From Christ, his onely joye.
Though sinfull flesh doe oft rebell,
And fancie file our fall,
Yet happie man, that can returne,
When God beginnes to call.
Though God permit his chosen flocke,
Sometimes to walke astraie:
Yet sets he both the times and meanes,
To wayne them from their waie.
How long did Paule, with cruell hart,
The Church of Christ molest?
Till called home to see the truth,
His blindnesse did detest.
How cruell was this Jaylors hart,
To vex the poore elect?
Till trembling earth by mightie power,
His madnesse did detect.
The God, that makes the haughtie hils,
And Libans Cedars shake
When he shall take his cause in hand,
Will make the prowdest quake.
To comfort his, that be in neede,
The Lord is alwaies prest,
And all that haps to his elect,
Is alwaies for the best.
Which in this picture here is seene,
By that, which shall insew,
Lord graunt us grace, when he doth call,
To frame our lives anew.