Classic Poem

The souls complaint sep 27 72

Thou'lt scarsly let me look
but clapst the door too
And leavest not a hole, or nook
at which I may, look through
Thou givest me a tast
and drawst away, in hast.

I cannot have my fill
of what, I somtimes see
That is reserv'd for Zion hill
then thou wilt satiete me
Oh let me, swiftly fly
Unto that mountain, high.

This is our sowing time
we may not reap, as yet
Tis well if we, before we climb
a sheaf of glory gett
And may have leave to top
an ear, of the full crop.

Sometimes I cant but cry
from small experience
Is this soe sweet, oh what shall I
enjoy, when I goe hence
And quikly I, would be
Transplanted, unto thee.

I cannot but complain
How short thy visitts are
Thou wilt not with me, long remain
but goest e're I'me aware
A full, clear, sight of thee
Would be hev'n unto me.

If this I must not have
yet still encrease, my love
I know thou wilt nott always stave
me off, but wilt remove
Mee, to that place where I
Shall drink, eternally.