Classic Poem

Eternall mover whose diffused glory
to thow I groveling reason what thou art
Infoldes it selfe in cloudes of restless story
Where man (thie proudest creature) acts his parte.
Whome yett alas I knowe not why wee call
the worlds contracted Summ, the little all

For what are wee but lumpes of walking clay?
What are our vaunts? whence should our spiritts rise
are not brute beastes as strong? and birds as gay?
Trees longer liv'd and creepinge thinges as wise?
Onlie our soules receave more inward light
to feele our weakness and confess thy might.

Thou then our strength father of life and death
to whome our vowes, our selves, our thanks wee owe
from mee (the tenaunte of this fadinge breath)
Accept these lines which by thie moveinge flowe.
And thou that wert, the regall Prophetes muse
doe not thie praise in weaker strawes refuse

Lett these pure noates ascend unto thie throane.
Where majestie doth sitt with mercy crown'd
where my redeemer lives, in whome alone
the errors of my wandringe life are drown'd
where all the Quire of heaven resound the fame
that none but thyne, thyne is the saveing name

Therefore my soule, joye in the midst of paine
that Christ that conquer'd hell, shall from above
with greater triumphs yett returne againe
And conquer his owne justice with his love
Comaundinge earth and Seas to render those
unto his bliss for whome he payd his woes

Nowe have I donne, nowe are my joyes at peace
and nowe my joyes are stronger then my greife
I feele those Comforts that shall never cease
future in hopes but present in releife
Thy words are true, thie promises are just
and thou wilt knowe thy marked flock in dust