Classic Poem

febru: 11 72/3

Oh blessed day, when I shall still
Have my heart suted to my work
And my work, suted to thy will
Noe backwardnese, shall in me lurk
This will not be whilst I am here
Untill I move, in glorys spher.

What ar the comforts here below
I cannot Lord, upon them live
Nothing, but what from thee doth flow
Can satisfaction, to me give
Poure of thy fullnese, upon me
Or call me hence, to live with thee.

I am tormented, with desire
For that, which heaven only brings
Enjoyment, att which I aspire
let me unto it flee with wings
Oh manefest thy self to me
Or fecth me up in hast. to thee.

Christ is my food, my only meat
Ther's nothing else, will me content
Hunger, and want, makes greif so great
Words to exprese't I cant invent
Thy self, in thine allfulnese, give
Or take me up, with thee to live.