 | The Poems of Edward Taylor |  |
14. Meditation. Col. 2.3. In whom are hid all the Treasures of Wisdom, and Knowledge.
3d.9m [Nov.] 1695.
Halfe Dead: and rotten at the Coare: my Lord!
I am Consumptive: and my Wasted lungs
Scarce draw a Breath of aire: my Silver Coard
Is loose. My buckles almost have no tongues.
My Heart is Fistulate: I am a Shell.
In Guilt and Filth I wallow, Sent and Smell.
I am Consumptive: and my Wasted lungs
Scarce draw a Breath of aire: my Silver Coard
Is loose. My buckles almost have no tongues.
My Heart is Fistulate: I am a Shell.
In Guilt and Filth I wallow, Sent and Smell.
Shall not that Wisdom horded up in thee
(One key whereof is Sacerdotall Types)
Provide a Cure for all this griefe in mee
And in the Court of Justice save from Stripes,
And purge away all Filth and Guilt, and bring
A Cure to my Consumption as a King?
(One key whereof is Sacerdotall Types)
Provide a Cure for all this griefe in mee
And in the Court of Justice save from Stripes,
And purge away all Filth and Guilt, and bring
A Cure to my Consumption as a King?
Shall not that Wisdom horded in thee (which
Prophetick Types enucleate) forth shine
With Light enough a Saving Light to fix
On my Poore Taper? And a Flame Divine?
Making my Soule thy Candle and its Flame
Thy Light to guide mee, till I Glory gain?
Prophetick Types enucleate) forth shine
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On my Poore Taper? And a Flame Divine?
Making my Soule thy Candle and its Flame
Thy Light to guide mee, till I Glory gain?
Shall not that Wisdom horded in thee up
(Which Kingly Types do shine upon in thee)
Mee with its Chrystall Cupping Glasses cup
And draine ill Humours wholy out of mee?
Ore come my Sin? And mee adorn with Grace
And fit me for thy Service, and thy Face?
(Which Kingly Types do shine upon in thee)
Mee with its Chrystall Cupping Glasses cup
And draine ill Humours wholy out of mee?
Ore come my Sin? And mee adorn with Grace
And fit me for thy Service, and thy Face?
How do these Pointers type thee out most right
As Graces Officine of Wisdom pure
The fingers Salves and Medicines so right
That never faile, when usd, to worke a Cure?
Oh! that it would my Wasted lungs recrute.
And make my feeble Spirits upward shute.
As Graces Officine of Wisdom pure
The fingers Salves and Medicines so right
That never faile, when usd, to worke a Cure?
Oh! that it would my Wasted lungs recrute.
And make my feeble Spirits upward shute.
How Glorious art thou, Lord? Cloathd with the Glory
Of Prophets, Priests, and Kings? Nay all Types come
To lay their Glory on thee. (Brightsome Story).
Their Rayes attend thee, as Sun Beams the Sun.
And shall my Ulcer'd Soule have such reliefe?
Such glorious Cure? Lord strengthen my beliefe.
Of Prophets, Priests, and Kings? Nay all Types come
To lay their Glory on thee. (Brightsome Story).
Their Rayes attend thee, as Sun Beams the Sun.
And shall my Ulcer'd Soule have such reliefe?
Such glorious Cure? Lord strengthen my beliefe.
Why dost not love, my Soule? or Love grow strong?
These glorious Beams of Wisdom on thee shine.
Will not this Sunshine make thy branch green long,
And flowrish as it doth to heaven climbe?
Oh! chide thyselfe out of thy Lethargie,
And unto Christ on Angells wings up fly.
These glorious Beams of Wisdom on thee shine.
Will not this Sunshine make thy branch green long,
And flowrish as it doth to heaven climbe?
Oh! chide thyselfe out of thy Lethargie,
And unto Christ on Angells wings up fly.
Draw out thy Wisdom, Lord, and make mee just.
Draw out thy Wisdom. Wisdoms Crown give mee.
With shining Holiness Candy my Crust:
And make mee to thy Scepter bow the knee.
Let thy rich Grace mee save from Sin, and Death:
And I will tune thy Praise with holy Breath.
Draw out thy Wisdom. Wisdoms Crown give mee.
With shining Holiness Candy my Crust:
And make mee to thy Scepter bow the knee.
Let thy rich Grace mee save from Sin, and Death:
And I will tune thy Praise with holy Breath.
| The Poems of Edward Taylor | |