Classic Poem

Another.

Descend sweet hallowed Fire from that high FLAME
that euer burnes in LOVES eternall Brest;
consume this Sacrifice, and let the rest
Licke up my Teares for Sinne about the same
That Mis-beleeuers thereby still may know
There is no God but he that fir'd it so

I am no Prophet, Seer, Saint, nor ought ,
that may expect such Fauour, but a Wretch
made meeke by Sinne; yet Hands of Faith doe stretch
To thee, whom men prophane, doe set at nought:
If Faith then, with thee worke this wondrous Feate,
They will confesse my God as good, as great!