Classic Poem

the worst of Christ better then the worlds best excelencys.

Christs refuse is, better by far
then this worlds hapinese
The worst of Christ, doth wholy mar
the world, in her best drese

Att the door of thy house to stand
is more felicity
Then earthly kingdomes, to command
or be advanc'd on high

Ther's more of heaven, in thy frown
whilst after thee, we moane
Then's to be found, in the renown
of kings, upon the throne

Tis better to mourn, ore thy grave
and weep, when thee we mise
Then this worlds fullnese for to have
with all her joy, and blise

The leavings of thy Children deer
the crums, which from them fall
Is better then the worlds, best chear
for which men tug, and hale

Thy glooms, the hiding of thy face
when strongly, atracting
Is better then under the rays
of this world, for to sing

A by drop, cast into the soull
doth yeeld more true releife
Then from this world the fullest dole
that it to us, can give

To follow thee, and bear thy crose
brings in more true delight
Then this worlds gold, and sillver drose
can yeeld unto the sight

Then Lord give me, whilst I am here
still somthing of thy self
I cannot live, on this worlds chear
I care not for its wealth

What ever will me neerer bring
to thee, that I would crave
And that which will, make me still spring
to thee, is that I'de have

A litle tast of thee I prize
in duty, far beyound
All worthly spleanded, foperys
of which I cant be fond