 | The Poems of Edward Taylor |  |
79
49. Meditation. Matt. 25.21. The joy of thy Lord.
26.12m [Feb.] 1692.
Lord, do away my Motes: and Mountains great.
My nut is vitiate. Its kirnell rots:
Come, kill the Worm, that doth its kirnell eate
And strike thy sparkes within my tinderbox.
Drill through my metall-heart an hole wherein
With graces Cotters to thyselfe it pin.
My nut is vitiate. Its kirnell rots:
Come, kill the Worm, that doth its kirnell eate
And strike thy sparkes within my tinderbox.
Drill through my metall-heart an hole wherein
With graces Cotters to thyselfe it pin.
A Lock of Steel upon my Soule, whose key
The serpent keeps, I fear, doth lock my doore.
O pick't: and through the key-hole make thy way
And enter in: and let thy joyes run o're.
My Wards are rusty. Oyle them till they trig
Before thy golden key: thy Oyle makes glib.
The serpent keeps, I fear, doth lock my doore.
O pick't: and through the key-hole make thy way
And enter in: and let thy joyes run o're.
My Wards are rusty. Oyle them till they trig
Before thy golden key: thy Oyle makes glib.
Take out the Splinters of the World that stick
Do in my heart: Friends, Honours, Riches, and
The Shivers in't of Hell whose venoms quick
And firy make it swoln and ranckling stand.
These wound and kill: those shackle strongly to
Poore knobs of Clay, my heart. Hence sorrows grow.
Do in my heart: Friends, Honours, Riches, and
The Shivers in't of Hell whose venoms quick
And firy make it swoln and ranckling stand.
These wound and kill: those shackle strongly to
Poore knobs of Clay, my heart. Hence sorrows grow.
Cleanse, and enlarge my kask: It is too small:
And tartarizd with worldly dregs dri'de in't.
It's bad mouth'd too: and though thy joyes do Call
That boundless are, it ever doth them stint.
Make me thy Chrystall Caske: those wines in't tun
That in the Rivers of thy joyes do run.
And tartarizd with worldly dregs dri'de in't.
It's bad mouth'd too: and though thy joyes do Call
That boundless are, it ever doth them stint.
Make me thy Chrystall Caske: those wines in't tun
That in the Rivers of thy joyes do run.
Lord make me, though suckt through a straw or Quill,
Tast of the Rivers of thy joyes, some drop.
'Twill sweeten me: and all my Love distill
Into thy glass, and me for joy make hop.
'Twill turn my water into wine: and fill
My Harp with Songs my Masters joyes distill.
Tast of the Rivers of thy joyes, some drop.
80
Into thy glass, and me for joy make hop.
'Twill turn my water into wine: and fill
My Harp with Songs my Masters joyes distill.
| The Poems of Edward Taylor | |