Classic Poem

Here is a Mudwall tent, whose Matters are
— — Dead Elements, which mixt make dirty trade:
Which with Life Animall are wrought up faire
— — A Living mudwall by Gods holy Spade.
— — Yet though a Wall alive all spruice, and crouce
— — Its Base, and Vile. And baseness keeps its House.

Nature's Alembick 't is, Its true: that stills
— — The Noblest Spirits terrene fruits possess,
Yet, oh! the Relicks in the Caldron will
— — Proove all things else, Guts, Garbage, Rotteness.
— — And all its pipes but Sincks of nasty ware
— — That foule Earths face, and do defile the aire.

A varnisht pot of putrid excrements,
— — And quickly turns to excrements itselfe,
By natures Law: but, oh! there therein tents
— — A sparke immortall and no mortall elfe.
— — An Angell bright here in a Swine Sty dwell!
— — What Lodge of Wonders's this? What tongue can tell?

But, oh! how doth this Wonder still encrease?
— — The Soule Creeps in't. And by it's too defil'd.
Are both made base, and vile, can have no peace
— — Without, nor in: and's of its Shine beguil'd.
— — And though this Spirit in it dwells yet here
— — Its glory will not dwell with such sad geere.

Both grac'd together, and disgrac'd. Sad Case.
— — What now becomes of Gods Electing Love?
This now doth raise the Miracle apace,
— — Christ doth step in, and Graces Art improove.
— — He kills the Leprosy that taints the Walls:
— — And sanctifies the house before it falls.

Oh! make my Body, Lord, Although its vile,
— — Thy warehouse where Grace doth her treasures lay.
And Cleanse the house and ery Room from Soile.
— — Deck all my Rooms with thy rich Grace I pray.
— — If thy free Grace doth my low tent, perfume,
— — I'll sing thy Glorious praise in ery room.