Prison-Pietie or, Meditations Divine and Moral. Digested into Poetical Heads, On Mixt and Various Subjects. Whereunto is added A Panegyrick to The Right Reverend, and most Nobly descended, Henry, Lord Bishop of London. By Samuel Speed, Prisoner in Ludgate, London |
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The Soul's Alarm. |
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The Soul's Alarm.
Awake, my Soul, chase from thine eyesThis drowsie sloath, and quickly rise
Up, and to work apace.
No less than Kingdoms are prepar'd,
And endless Bliss for their reward
Who finish well their race.
'Tis not so poor a thing to be
Servants to Heav'n, dear Lord, and thee,
As this fond World believes;
Not even here, where oft the wise
Are most expos'd to injuries,
And friendless vertue grieves.
Sometimes thy hand lets gently fall
A little drop that sweetens all
The bitter of our Cup:
O what hereafter shall we be
When we shall have whole draughts of thee,
Brim-full, and drink them up!
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The fresh and living stream of sweets,
Which spring from that bless'd Throne;
Did you not finde this true, even here?
Do you not finde it truer there,
Now Heaven is all your own?
O yes, the sweets we taste exceed
All we can say, or you can read;
They fill, and never cloy.
On Earth our Cup was sweet, but mix'd,
Here all is pure, refin'd, and fix'd;
All quintessence of Joy.
Hear'st thou, my Soul, what glorious things
The Church of Heav'n in triumph brings
Of their bless'd life above?
Chear thy faint hopes, and bid them live;
All these thy God to thee will give,
If thou embrace his love.
Great God of rich rewards, who thus
Hast crown'd thy Saints, and wilt crown us,
As both to thee belong:
O may we both together sing
Eternal praise to thee, our King,
In one eternal Song.
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