Classic Poem

An expostulation of the soull with it self. July 11

What unbeleife is this
thus hastily
to long to dy
And all because of this
Black cloud, that now, thus overspreads
And threatens, to poure on our heads.

Wher is thy faith, wherby
with confidence
beyound thy sence
Thou shouldst on god rely
His interest he will cecure
His word, to thee, doth this ensure.

Thou wouldst to heaven get
and on the shore
wouldst land, before
Thy time, whose perieds set
Till that be come, tis vain to strive
Sooner unto it, to a-rive.

Why art thou soe afraid
of this black day
and wouldst a-way
No more to be dismai'd
with dayly fears of what may be
Or what thine eyes, may live to see.

If thine immortall soull
be but cecur'd
what eres endur'd
Thoult get safe to the goall
And shalt through grace, atain the crown
In peace, therfore, my soull, ly down.

Under the canopy
of devine love
which from above
Is spread out over thee
Gods pow'r and alsufficiency
Shall be thy sweet cecurity.