 | [Poems in two Parts] |  |
Doubt 5.
From inward Corruptions.
SOUL.With such as me! believ't who will; I can't,
Whoever enters Heaven, sure I shan't.
Nought that defiles shall thither come; that place
Is fill'd with Glory for Souls fill'd with Grace.
But mine is stuff'd with sin, numberless evils,
Ill thoughts, affections, Legions of Devils,
Haunt and inhabit here. Lord! what a pow'r
Of lusts are crawling in it every hour!
I never set my self to look within,
But I discover filthy heaps of sin.
Did others see what I do, they with shame
And scorn would shun me; I disgrace that name
Which graceth me, Christ's holy name I bear.
Him I profess, his Livery I wear,
With him I live, his word I hear, yet feel
No yielding to him in this heart of Steel.
Filthy I was, and so am still; How can
An holy Christ dwell in so foul a man?
Sure he his habitation sweepeth clean;
There are not in his Temple heaps of sin.
12
Have no true life, not finding sin to dye.
FAITH.
Sin is in thee. But is there nothing more?
There may be Grace, though of corruption store.
In midst of enemies thy Saviour reigns,
And of those enemies still ground he gains.
That mighty one hath girt his Sword to's side,
And conquering, to conquer he doth ride.
Thou feelest thy corruptions are rife,
Such feeling is a mercy, sign of life.
Dead men feel nothing, load them, load again,
They do not groan, they do not once complain.
It's well when sin doth trouble and molest,
Which did thee please; for Christ hath promis'd rest
To heavy-laden souls; nor is he slack
To take that burden off which galls thy back.
He will not pass thee by, because so ill;
Thou art the fitter for his Sov'reign skill.
A good Phisician overlooks the sound,
And goes where sicknesses do most abound.
Hate and abhor thy sins, thy self bemoan;
If sin lose love, it cannot keep the throne.
Where 'tis endear'd it lives, loathed it dies.
Christ at one time humbles and sanctifies.
As for the stirrings of thy lust, at most,
They'r but death pangs, it shall give up the Ghost.
Sampson did at his death make greatest sport.
The Devils rage grows high, when's time is short.
13
As to discern 'twixt reign and rage of sin.
What speak thy bleeding heart, & weeping eyes?
Sure this, that sin don't reign but tyrannize.
Danger of death is past, because I see
By these complainings, sin doth die in thee.
| [Poems in two Parts] | |