The Citizens Flight With their Recall; To which is added Englands Tears and Englands Comforts: By John Quarles |
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 | The Citizens Flight |  |
Thus subtle death lies lurking in our sins
To catch us (when we struggle) in his gins,
But they that will avoid his crafty snare
Must first discover it by faith, and prayer;
And when discovered, it may well be said
The crafty traytor is himself betray'd;
Although he exercise his power so fast
Yet he himself shall be destroy'd at last,
Whilst we (then glorify'd) shall sit and sing
Death where's thy power, oh Grave where is thy sting?
Then why should we (fond mortals) fear or dread
The thing that cannot hurt us, if we spread
Our arms to Heav'n; he'l take us by the hand
And safely lead us to the promis'd Land;
Then shall we have no cause to fear or doubt;
We that come weeping in, go smiling out;
Happy are we, if we the truth imbrace,
Though we were born in sin, we die in grace;
The Midwives hand even dragg'd us to our Birth
Whilst we poor lumps of senseless, living Earth
Lie crying in her lap; but know not why
Yet every tear is then a prophesie;
The tender Infant does no sooner break
The prison of the Womb, but seems to speak
To this effect. Behold, see I am come
Naked and shiftless from my Mothers womb:
What shall I do, I have nor feet, nor hands
But what are useless, griping sorrow stands
Ready to snatch me from my Mothers brest,
Not suffering me to take a minutes rest.
Is this the world that fondlings dote upon?
Oh that I had but power to be gone!
I quickly would find out a place should be
Exempt from all encroaching misery;
This is no place of rest, I may deplore
My self, ah lass! I never cry'd before;
What, was I born to cry? strange kind of Birth,
Hard fate indeed, all Sorrow, and no Mirth!
Could I have kept my fleshly Cloyster still
I never than had known th' effects of ill;
But since my Birth hath brought me to distress
My patience and my prayers shall make it less;
But stay, alas, my Birth is not the cause
Of my sad sorrows, but the breach of Laws;
'Tis that, 'tis that which wounds me to the heart
'Tis I that sinn'd, 'tis only I must smart
'Tis only I; 'tis I, that must prepare
To bear the burthen of mine own made care.
Who yelds to sin except he does repent
As well must yield unto the punishment;
If we do well, we then expect reward
But if we sin; we sin without regard:
How dis-ingenious are we in our wills
To goodness, how ingenious in our ills?
These are the things for vvhich our guilty Land
Is now afflicted, and convicted stand;
'Tis but in vain to plead except it be
To mercy; for our quick deliverie,
We're our own Goalers, yet we have not power
To give our selves the freedom of an hour;
Our turn-key sins does lock us up so fast
We cannot stir, we must contrive to cast
Away our crimes; and then we must prepare
By heav'nly art to pick the lock by prayer;
This is the way to freedom: Now I find
My own mistake, free mercy is so kind
That neither lock, nor door, nor bar can be
Infringers of a Converts liberty;
A sigh will melt the doors and break the lock,
Nothing opposes, when by Faith we knock;
And if the Hammer of our zeal be strong
We shall not need to give attendance long;
Knock, and it shall be open'd; seek and find,
There's nothing hard unto a willing mind,
Run, and ye shall obtain, Lord give us grace
That in our running we may mend our pace;
Oh let thy mercy with our sorrows meet
And then we shall have wings as well as feet;
And then we shall be sure to run the race
Of mercy, and to take our flight in grace;
For when in flight, or running, we shall spend
Our zealous strength, oh Lord be thou the End.
To catch us (when we struggle) in his gins,
But they that will avoid his crafty snare
Must first discover it by faith, and prayer;
And when discovered, it may well be said
The crafty traytor is himself betray'd;
Although he exercise his power so fast
Yet he himself shall be destroy'd at last,
14
Death where's thy power, oh Grave where is thy sting?
Then why should we (fond mortals) fear or dread
The thing that cannot hurt us, if we spread
Our arms to Heav'n; he'l take us by the hand
And safely lead us to the promis'd Land;
Then shall we have no cause to fear or doubt;
We that come weeping in, go smiling out;
Happy are we, if we the truth imbrace,
Though we were born in sin, we die in grace;
The Midwives hand even dragg'd us to our Birth
Whilst we poor lumps of senseless, living Earth
Lie crying in her lap; but know not why
Yet every tear is then a prophesie;
The tender Infant does no sooner break
The prison of the Womb, but seems to speak
To this effect. Behold, see I am come
Naked and shiftless from my Mothers womb:
What shall I do, I have nor feet, nor hands
But what are useless, griping sorrow stands
Ready to snatch me from my Mothers brest,
Not suffering me to take a minutes rest.
Is this the world that fondlings dote upon?
Oh that I had but power to be gone!
I quickly would find out a place should be
Exempt from all encroaching misery;
This is no place of rest, I may deplore
My self, ah lass! I never cry'd before;
What, was I born to cry? strange kind of Birth,
Hard fate indeed, all Sorrow, and no Mirth!
Could I have kept my fleshly Cloyster still
I never than had known th' effects of ill;
15
My patience and my prayers shall make it less;
But stay, alas, my Birth is not the cause
Of my sad sorrows, but the breach of Laws;
'Tis that, 'tis that which wounds me to the heart
'Tis I that sinn'd, 'tis only I must smart
'Tis only I; 'tis I, that must prepare
To bear the burthen of mine own made care.
Who yelds to sin except he does repent
As well must yield unto the punishment;
If we do well, we then expect reward
But if we sin; we sin without regard:
How dis-ingenious are we in our wills
To goodness, how ingenious in our ills?
These are the things for vvhich our guilty Land
Is now afflicted, and convicted stand;
'Tis but in vain to plead except it be
To mercy; for our quick deliverie,
We're our own Goalers, yet we have not power
To give our selves the freedom of an hour;
Our turn-key sins does lock us up so fast
We cannot stir, we must contrive to cast
Away our crimes; and then we must prepare
By heav'nly art to pick the lock by prayer;
This is the way to freedom: Now I find
My own mistake, free mercy is so kind
That neither lock, nor door, nor bar can be
Infringers of a Converts liberty;
A sigh will melt the doors and break the lock,
Nothing opposes, when by Faith we knock;
And if the Hammer of our zeal be strong
We shall not need to give attendance long;
16
There's nothing hard unto a willing mind,
Run, and ye shall obtain, Lord give us grace
That in our running we may mend our pace;
Oh let thy mercy with our sorrows meet
And then we shall have wings as well as feet;
And then we shall be sure to run the race
Of mercy, and to take our flight in grace;
For when in flight, or running, we shall spend
Our zealous strength, oh Lord be thou the End.
| The Citizens Flight | |