Poemata sacra Latinae & Anglicae scripta [by John Saltmarsh] |
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| IX. |
| X. | Meditat. X. The Lord is nigh to all those that call upon him, Psal. 145. |
| XI. |
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 | Poemata sacra |  |
Meditat. X. The Lord is nigh to all those that call upon him, Psal. 145.
Nigh Lord, & yet divorc't with such bright wallsOf starres and planets and transparent balls?
'Las when I view the aerie distance, I,
As though my pray'rs were too shortwinded, sigh:
My pray'rs scarce feather'd with devotion flie,
And like faint arrows in my bosome die.
Shew me a nearer path my pray'rs may tread:
This journey I despair on: they half dead
Languish; O let some plumes (in thy great love)
To make my pray'r some wings fall from thy Dove.
O shoot me down a sheet of lightning; so
I'le wrap my pray'r in that and let it go:
Or reach me down a ray, and I will tie
My thoughts in that bright string and let them flie:
No need of this, Lord; thou art nigh, dost dwell
About, within, in body, soul: O well
For me faint sinner! dost thou thus with me,
Dull, grosse, ev'n mix thy purer entitie?
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Thou border'st on my essence, thou art here.
In thee I have my being: when I crie,
Do not remove O Lord, but be still nigh.
| Poemata sacra | |