O, can ye believe that the blest saints above
Can't fly, and minister to saints here below
Whose souls are enrapture'd in bright flames of love,
What! not a sympathy, or friendship bestow?

O can't they move swiftly through regions of air,
And give us a prelude of their own happy state?
A wife or a partner as divulgant declare,
And convey something sweet to their own lonely mate?

Then show me the scripture forbidding this thing,
Its awful repugnance to the great word of God;
As sure as the saints and the angels shall sing,
I see nothing against it on sacred record.

What a comfort to have those intelligent creatures
Come hov'ring about us, in their pure whit'ned robes;
Their songs and their anthems in sweet heavenly metres,
Their praises, could we hear them, astonish the globe.

If the child's guardian angel does always see God,
Depend on't the saint has the vision as fair;
All holy and pure, he is washed in blood,
And with the bright cherub in this will compare.