Classic Poem

September 25 72

Why sittst thou musing thus
my soull a-way
All cretures, ar not worth a rush
compared with one ray
Which from the sun of righteousnese
Doth dart, upon the comfortlese.

Arise, my soull, arise.
here's not thy rest
Tread under foot, earths vanitys
and hasten to thy nest
Of sweetnese, where, thou hapst to ly
Secure, to all eternity.

Why standst thou Idle here
Arise, be gone
The day in which thou must apear
draws nigh, therfore goe on
Goe on apace, till in the land
Of glory, thy feett firmly stand.

See what hangs o're thy head
A glorious crown
And wilt thou here, upon the bed
of sloth, and ease, ly down
And not gett up for to possese
This glorious crown of hapinese
Make hast unto the goall
tis for a prize
Why sitst thou in this durty hold
as listlese to arise
For shame, my soull, make hast, & run
Apace, untill the prize be won.

That glorious diadem,
and heavens crown
Tis Christ, in that Jerusalem
That sweet plant, of renown
Come then, my soull now bid adeiw
To this vain word, and him persue.