Classic Poem

The world.

This world's a vain, an empty thing
Her Joys doe reall sorows bring

All things, that ar below the sun
With hast; and speed, away they run

The world our comforts steall, & rifle
Whilst wee like Children. play, & trifle

Arise my soull, its not thy rest
The comforts in it ar at best

But briers, that do prick, & smart
And cannot ease, a wounded hart

It is a heap of vanity
Afording only misery

When wee would of her pleasures tast
Our precyous time doth speand, & wast

When wee doe of its sent pertake
It doth but stop, & suffocate

When we would mount above the sky
It pulls us down, & here we lye

Yet wait A while, & thou shalt see
A conquered enemy, it shall bee
Through Christ, who gave himself for thee