Classic Poem

I

H E seeks for ours as we do seek for His;
Nay, O my Soul, ours is far more His bliss
Than His is ours; at least it so doth seem
Both in His own and our esteem:

II

His earnest love, His infinite desires,
His living, endless, and devouring fires,
Do rage in thirst and fervently require
A love 'tis strange it should desire.

III

We cold and careless are, and scarcely think
Upon the glorious spring whereat we drink.
Did He not love us we could be content:
We wretches are indifferent!

IV

He courts our love with infinite esteem,
And seeks it so that it doth almost seem
Even all His blessedness. His love doth prize
It as the only Sacrifice.

V

'Tis death, my soul, to be indifferent,
Set forth thyself unto thy whole extent,
And all the glory of His passion prize,
Who for thee lives, who for thee dies.

VI

His goodness made thy love so great a pleasure,
His goodness made thy soul so great a treasure
To thee and Him: that thou mightst both inherit,
Prize it according to its merit.

VII

There is no goodness nor desert in thee,
For which thy love so coveted should be;
His goodness is the fountain of thy worth;
O live to love and set it forth.

VIII

Thou nothing giv'st to Him, He gave all things
To thee, and made thee like the King of Kings:
His love the fountain is of Heaven and Earth,
The cause of all thy joy and mirth.

IX

Thy love is nothing but itself, and yet
So infinite is His that He doth set
A value infinite upon it. Oh!
This, canst thou careless be, and know!

X

Let that same goodness, which being infinite,
Esteems thy love with infinite delight,
Tho' less than His, tho' nothing, always be
An object infinite to thee.

XI

And as it is the cause of all esteem,
Of all the worth which in thy love doth seem,
So let it be the cause of all thy pleasure,
Causing its being and its treasure.