Schola Cordis or the Heart of it Selfe, gone away from God ::

Mine heart's a field, thy crosse a plow: be pleas'd
Dear Spouse, to till it, till the mould be rais'd
Fit for the seeding of thy Word: then sow,
And if thou shine upon it, it will grow.

Ode. 27.

1

So, now me thinks I find
Some better vigour in my mind,
My will begins to move,
And mine affections stirre towards things above:
Mine heart growes bigge with hope it is a field,
That some good fruit may yeeld,
If it were till'd, as it should be,
Not by my self, but thee.

2

Great Husbandman, whose pow'r
All difficulties can devour,
And doe what likes thee best,
Let not thy field, mine heart, lie lay, and rest,
Lest it be over-runne with noysome weeds,
That spring of their own seeds:
Unlesse thy grace the growth should stoppe,
Sinne would be all my croppe.

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3

Break up my fallow ground,
That there may not a clod be found
To hide one root of sinne.
Apply thy plow betime: now, now beginne
To furrow up my stiffe, and starvy heart,
No matter for the smart,
Al though it roare, when it is rent,
Let not thine hand relent.

4

Corruption's rooted deep,
Showres of repentant teares must steep
The mould to make it soft:
It must be stirr'd, and turn'd, not once, but oft.
Let it have all its seasons. O impart
The best of all thine art.
For, of it self it is so rough,
All will be but enough.

5

Or, if it be thy will
To teach me, let me learne the skill
My self to plow mine heart:
The profit will be mine, and 't is my part
To take the paines, and labour, though th' encrease
Without thy blessing cease:
If fit for nothing else, yet thou
May'st make me draw thy Plow.

6

Which of thy Plowes thou wilt,
For thou hast more then one. My guilt,
Thy wrath, thy rods, are all
Plowes fit to teare mine heart to pieces small:
And, when in these apprehends thee neer,

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'Tis furrowed with fear:
Each weed turn'd under hides its head,
And shewes as it were dead.

7

But, Lord, thy blessed passion
Is a Plow of another fashion,
Better then all the rest.
Oh fasten me to that, and let the best
Of all my powers strive to draw it in,
And leave no roome for sinne
The vertue of thy death can make.
Sinne its fast hold forsake.

University of Virginia Library

The tilling of the Heart.

Epigr. 27.

Ode. 27.

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