Classic Poem

mr H

My soull doth pine, and long, to be
Transplanted, Lord, up unto thee.

Tis litle here, that I can get
And that doth but, my hunger whet.

My sins, doe cause thee frequently
To hide thy face, and from me fly.

But faith, would venture unto thee
Knowing in heaven I shall see.

Thy face, and have my fill of love
Which makes me long, for my remove.

Sin as a clog, whilst here, I bear
And as an Iron chain, I wear.

Oh that thou wouldst lifes knot unty
That I from it, away might fly.

Created comforts, ar to me
But drose, and dung, compar'd with thee.

In thee, in thee, I would expire
The only object I admire.

Oh pity Lord, a love-sick soull
Doe thou my state, sweetly condole

And take mee up, with thee to dwell
Out of this dark, and durty, cell.

But stay a while, what's this I hear
Thers one that would put me in fear.

As if in longing, to be gone
I were, most grosly, in the wrong.

Now though my hart, doth sink, and ake
This frame, I am loth to forsake.

I cant but crave, to make defence
For this, my chousest evedence.

Of love to Christ, which first must flow
From his own love, and out on't grow.

Pray let me reason, yet a while
Ere you of this, doe me beguile.

Must saincts, with this world, fall in love
And be unwilling to remove.

From hence, to that celestiall Spher
Cause they ar capeble whilst here.

Of doing that, for god which they
Cannot, when hence, they ar cald away

Can sinfull praise, more honour bring
Then sinlese praise, unto our king.

Cause faith is good, unto that state
of love, and of imediate.

Enjoyment, may we not aspire
And bend to it, with strong desire.

Can we a person, love endeed
And not make out, with hast, and speed.

To meet the only object of,
Our deerest, and intirest, love.

Can any thing, we have acquir'd
Make our. imperfect stat desir'd.

Then worthy sir, why do you say
Tis good to live, here many a day.

Ar ther soe many, in the throng
Of this world, that, doe truly long.

In their redeemers arms to lye
That you should thus, att them let fly.

Discouraging them in ther race
To the fruition, of his face.

The most I think, soe much desire
Long life, you had more need to fire.

Them, out of ther poluted nest
That they may seek, a better rest.

But as for those, that have a sight
And tast, of Christ there harts delight.

All your perswasions ar in vain
To make them wilingly, remain.

In this sad, distant, absent, state
Your arguments ar come to late.

Ther harts they ar already gone
To'th object, they would live upon.

And tis beyound your skill, to tole
Ther harts back, to this durty hole.

You may perhaps, doe good on those
That never smelt, sweet Sharons Rose.

Experience of the best of saincts
Which on the earth, have had their haunts.

You seem by this, for to condemne
Whilst you such durt, to throw on them.

As if they were, grown weary of,
Ther work, and therfore, would remove.

To Judg the hart, you should beware
To god alone, is this made bare.

And those whom you, condemne, he will
Shortly, acquit, on Zion hill.

And call that love, which you call Laze
Making, ther troubled souls, arnaize.

Hath not st paull. (now Lodg'd above)
Pronounc'd them bles'd, who truly love.

The sweet apearing, of the Lord
Is it not down, upon record,

That truly, blessed, ar the dead
Which in Christs, arms; have laid ther head.

Doth not the whole creation, cry
And groan, and wait, for liberty.

Ar we not said, in tents of clay
To long for that most glorious day.

When absent from the body we
Shall present, with Christ Jesus be.

May not the church, ernestly cry
Why stays his char'ot whells, oh why.

Do they not run amain. Ag'en
Come quikly, Lord Jesus amen.

By gods own word, I will abide
And by that, shall my cause be try'd.

If that acquits, I will not care
Though men condemne, they shall not scare.

The church crys out, Lord Jesus come
Amen, say I, & fecth me home.

That I may fully, thee, enjoy
And no sin, may my soull anoy

Tis Christ alone, that I desire
To be with him, I will aspire

And will not care, what man can say
But hast, to an eternall day.