Classic Poem

Infinet power, & wisdome in bringing so much good to the soull, out of the greatest of evills. sin.

Sometimes I cant but wonder why
Thou shouldst in us leave any sin
Seeing thou couldst, as easily
Att first full pow'r o're itt give in
Into thy counsels deep
we may not to far peep.

But that which we doe plainly see
We may take notise of, and say
Tis for the glory, of thy free
Grace, which thou dost therby display
Whilst thou dost multiply
new pardons, from on high.

Wee must to heaven, goe halting
Through the feilds, of thy rich, free grace
That we the praise of grace may sing
When we shall always, see thy face
tis fitt it should be soe
'Cause all from grace, doth flow.

Hereby thou makst, thy pow'r to shine
By keeping grace, in us alive
Whilst sin which is so strong, in thine
Doth always for the mastery strive
Yet in this sea of sin
thou keepest our spark in.

By this thy pow'r, is manefest
And made to shine conspicuously
In making grace, o'recome att last
And bear away, the victory
Whilst it shall triumph o're
each sin, for ever more.

Though sin, whilst here, will not be thurst
quite out of doors, yet thou therby
Dost keep down prid, whilst in the dust
From sence of vilnese, we doe ly
Low thoughts of self, doth spring
From this indweling sin.

From sin, which doth in us remain
Thou dost produce this sweet efect
To weane us from this world soe vain.
Whilst in our thoughts, we itt reject
Longing as prisoners doe
att some hole, to break through.

This maketh heaven sweet, endeed
Longing to be, upon the wing
That we may get with hast, and speed
Out of the reach, and sight, of sin
Where we from it shall bee
eternally sett free.

Oh give me leave, still to admire
That which I cannot comprehand
Sett thou mine hard, & love, on fire
Whilst I with great, amaizment stand
and gaze upon thine art
Which here doth shine, & dart.

Upon this wonder, I would dwell
To think how thou shouldst make of sin
An antidote, for to expell
If self, and from it power bring
to root it out in time
out of the harts, of thine.

Thesse Gibeonits, make att thy nod
Hewers of wood, and drawers of
Watter, for the house of my god
Till out of'th land they ar quite drove
Oh let them nere get head
But still be captive led.

Shake of thesse fetters, from my soull
And sett thou it, att liberty
Do thou my prison state condole
Open the door & lett me fly
Into thy blessed arms
from the reach of itts charms

I long to be, from it set free
Say thou amen. I'me hapy then.