Classic Poem

The angels sung a carol at thy birth,
My Lord, and thou thyself didst sweetly sing
An epinicion at thy death on earth,
And orderst thine, in memory of this thing,
Thy Holy Supper, closing it at last
Up with an hymn, and chokst the foe thou hast.

Joy stands on tiptoes all the while thy guests
Sit at thy table, ready forth to sing
Its hallelujahs in sweet music's dress,
Waiting for organs to employ herein.
Here matter is allowed to all, rich, high,
My Lord, to tune thee hymns melodiously.

Oh! make my heart thy pipe; the Holy Ghost
The breath that fills the same and spiritually.
Then play on me, thy pipe, that is almost
Worn out with piping tunes of vanity.
Wind music is the best, if thou delight
To play the same thyself, upon my pipe.

Hence make me, Lord, thy golden trumpet choice,
And trumpet thou thyself upon the same,
Thy heart enravishing hymns with sweetest voice.
When thou thy trumpet soundst, thy tunes will flame.
My heart shall then sing forth thy praises sweet,
When sounded thus will thy sepulchre reach.
Make too my soul thy cittern, and its wires
Make my affections; and rub off their rust
With thy bright grace; and screw my strings up higher,
And tune the same to tunes thy praise most just.
I'll close thy supper then with hymns most sweet,
Bur'ing thy grave in thy sepulchre's reach.