The weary pilgrim

This worlds, a prison unto me
A dungeon dark, & black
Lord, I would in, thy presence be
This is the thing, I lack.

Like to a banisht prince am I
Far from his fathers court
In uncouth places, he dos ly
Forc'd with them to resort.

Whilst up, & down, hee's forc'd to range
He meets with usage, bad
This cant but be to him so strange
As makes him very sad.

He knows, that he is born unto
A kingdome, and a crown
He cannot stoop to actions low
To darken his renown.

I am a pilgrim, that's my case
Whilst in the world I stay
Having no ceirtain, dwelling plase
But in a tent of clay.

Whilst I am in the world, I grone
I take no true content
I'le never take it for my home
But look upon't as lent.

I am a stranger, in this world
The world, seems strang to me
Lord, hast to take a stranger home
Who is well known, to thee.

This world to me's a borow'd Inne
I Lodg here, for a night
And in the morning, I am gone
Fain. I would take my flight.

Tis night with me, whilst I am here
I long, for break of day
That when the light, 'gins to appear
I may be gone away.

No pris'nor bound hands, and feet
With Iron fetters strong
Longs more, with liberty to meet
Then I doe, to be gone.

I am somtimes amais'd, & tir'd
With this worlds noyse, and bustle
Its guilded glory's not desir'd
I care not for its rustle.

Dear Lord, what is this world to me
(I think) I love it not
For if I could, but be with thee
I would foregoe my lott.

Then dearest Jesus, come away
Oh make no stay, but come
Love is impatient of delay
Oh come, and fecth me home.

And though thou seest me unfitt
As yet, to veiw, thy face
I humbly beg, thou'lt make me meet
By speedy, growth in grace.

What meane I thus to talk of fittnese
I know of no such thing
Tis Christs imputed righteousnese
That I must wrap me in.