Classic Poem

When I Lord, send some Bits of Glory home,
(For Lumps I lack) my Messenger, I finde,
Bewildred, lose his Way being alone
In my befogg'd Dark Phancy, Clouded minde.
Thy Bits of Glory packt in Shreds of Praise
My Messenger doth lose, losing his Wayes.
Lord Cleare the Coast: and let thy sweet sun shine.
That I may better speed a second time:
Oh! fill my Pipkin with thy Blood red Wine:
I'l drinke thy Health: To pledge thee is no Crime.
Although I but an Earthen Vessell bee
Convay some of thy Fulness into mee.

Thou, thou my Lord, art full, top full of Grace,
The Golden Sea of Grace: Whose springs thence come,
And Pretious Drills, boiling in ery place.
Untap thy Cask, and let my Cup Catch some.
Although its in an Earthen Vessells Case,
Let it no Empty Vessell be of Grace.

Let thy Choice Caske, shed, Lord, into my Cue
A Drop of Juyce presst from thy Noble Vine.
My Bowl is but an Acorn Cup, I sue
But for a Drop: this will not empty thine.
Although I'me in an Earthen Vessells place,
My Vessell make a Vessell, Lord, of Grace.

My Earthen Vessell make thy Font also:
And let thy Sea my Spring of Grace in't raise.
Spring up oh Well. My Cup with Grace make flow.
Thy Drops will on my Vessell ting thy Praise.
I'l sing this Song, when I these Drops Embrace.
My Vessell now's a Vessell of thy Grace.