Classic Poem

For God the Lord, whose courts I love to haunt,
Is ev'ry thing that empty souls can want;
A sun for light, a shield for strength; yea, more,
On earth he gives his grace, in heav'n his glore.
This radiant sun, of life and light the source,
Scatters the shades by's circumambient course:
Yea, guides bemisted souls with heartsome beams,
And gloriously irradiating gleams.
This massy shield is polish'd bright with pow'r,
For helping weaklings in a per'lous hour.
Here's all that weary travellers would have:
A sun to cherish, and a shield to save.
Grace also here is giv'n t' adorn the soul,
And yield to glory in the heav'nly pole.
All divine treasure to the saint is due;
Nothing's deny'd, if truth itself be true.
The treasure is so vast it can't be told:
Nothing that God can give, will God withhold.
To whom he doth his saving grace impart,
To them he gives himself, his hand, his heart;
Uprightness too of heart and life does fall
Unto their share, who having him, have all.
In them the grace he gives, he still regards;
Gives holiness, and then his gift rewards.
For to his own upright and divine brood
He's bound to grant ev'n all that's great and good,
By's own word, firm oath, and sacred blood.