Classic Poem

To Thee my solitary Pray'rs I send,
The help that others my Distress deny,
With thy assistant Spirit Lord supply:
To dulness Life, Light to my Darkness lend.

Thou, Sun that beams of Righteousnes dost spread,
Thou sacred Spring of heavenly Light and heat,
Both warmth and clearness in my Heart beget,
Instruct, and for thy Servant intercede.

Fulness, sufficience, favour thee array;
Enough Thou Comfort art, and Company:
Thou art my King, my Priest and Prophet be;
Rule, teach, pray, in me, for me, with me stay.

Jacob who singly did with Thee contest
In sacred Duell, Thee his second had:
He conquer'd, and a blessing (by thy aid)
From Thee with welcome Violence did wrest.

With mercy on thy Servant be intent,
Who his Devotions once with them did joyne,
Whose fervour might inflame the cold of mine;
When to thy House with Joy and Peace we went.

Of those Occasions our neglect forgive,
Which we with just Improvement would not scan;
Now like the desert-haunting Pelican,
Or Sparrow pearch'd on some house-top I live.

And scatter'd like a dying Coale, from all
Those pious glowings that might fire impart:
Keep and increase on th'Altar of my Heart,
On Thee in sacrifice of Pray'r to call.

Yet thou that dost not break the bruised Reed,
Nor quench the smoaking Flax, oh! not despise
The smother'd Pray'rs that from my lone Soul rise,
Deny'd the helps which I desire and need.

The hardness of their Hearts, let soften mine;
Their hate my Love, denyall Pray'rs excite,
Their deafness thy Attention Lord invite,
Whose ready Eare, Heart, Hand to help incline.

Men may debar thy Churches outward right,
Not inward Grace to humble minds convey'd.
O make me such, and thou wilt Teach, Hear, Aid:
A broken contrite Heart, thou wilt not slight.

Thou Temple, Altar, Sacrifice and Priest,
At once canst make me; who each day alone
In Vowes, Pray'rs, Tears am thy Oblation:
By whom prepar'd, accepted, and possest!

Thou didst the Widow's Meale and Oyle encrease,
And secretly by strange supplys infuse
Into the Vessel and unwasting Cruze,
Which with the Drought and Dearth did only cease.

O my forsaken widow'd Soul preserve,
Let not thy Truth and sweet Effusions fail
My memory and heart, but so prevail,
Kept from accustom'd food, I may not sterve.

Yet better sterve than by their Hands to feed,
Who mix my Bread with Ashes, and infect
My Wine with Gall; who torture, not direct;
Prone to reproches, which their Pray'rs exceed.

To my Destruction they pervert thy Word,
O be it not eternally to theirs:
Devouring under colour of long Pray'rs,
The Houses of their Brethren, King, and Lord.

Let not the Balme of these Men break my Head,
Nor let their Cordials my heart oppress:
'Gainst their precisely colour'd wickedness,
My fervent Pray'rs incessantly shall plead.

Lord from the Snares their treacherous Lips include,
Their poy'snous toungs, and from their words sharp fire
Keep me and those who my Souls good desire,
Relieving with their Pray'rs my solitude.