Classic Poem

the soull weary, & tired, with the world, makes out ernestly, after that, which can give satisfaction.

I cant endure, this world, tis poor
and empty, unto me
Oh that thou wouldst, break ope the door
that I to thee, might flee

When on loves wing, I get to Christ
and take a veiw of him
Tis he thats by me, only pris'd
the world looks very dim

I care not then a rush, a straw
for its smiling aspect
All things in it, to me tast raw
to my eye, they'r abject

Fain I would get, the holy art
whilst I'me forct to live here
To win, and wind, into the hart
of my redeemer dear

When I doe get, upon this hill
I can look with disdaine
Apon the world, which cannot fill
my soull, with all its traine

Somthing faith spys, (what it cant tell)
which fain, it would be att
I cant enter; that citydell
till thou lay the wall flatt

Ther dwells within that cyty wall
a prince, that's dear to me,
My only one, my all, in all.
whom I doe long to see.

I must pase through, deaths black entry
before I come to thee
Oh that thou wouldst, the knot unty
that I, from hence, may flee

Thou drawest me, by a strong pull
of omnipotent strength
Ther's nothing that can fill me full
but love, which hath no length

I hunt, and hunt, but cannot find
that which I seek for here
perfection, that doth ly behind
reserv'd for heavens chear

I pine, but cannot have my fill
of thee, on this side time
Oh fecth me, quikly to that hill
which lyes beyound, times line

That litle tast, thou givst me here
it will not serve my turn,
I must to thee, get close, and neer
or else I ly, and burn.

It is a sweet, tormenting pain,
to burn in strong desire,
Whilst my afections, run amain,
and after thee aspire.

I cannot have, my fill of this,
whilst in a tent of clay,
Which makes me long, for future blise
and an eternall day.

that day, wherin no cloud shall be
my comforts, to eclips
The spring of life, shall flow to me
I sha'nt be fed with sips

Thoughts of long absence, I cant bear
I find no true content,
But gasp after the open ayr,
as one stifled, and pent.

Give patience, to me in my way
tis but a litle, while
And thou'lt abundantly repay.
me, for each weary mile.

Come look, & see, what thou hast wrought
thy workmanship Lord, own
And fecth me to the purchase bought
to stand, before thy throne

Thesse breathings did from thee first spring
thou art the blessed authour
Then own them Lord & quikly bring
my soull, to its sweet harbour