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 awaked. |
 | Prison-Pietie |  |
The Soul awaked.
Lord, we again lift up our eyes,And leave our sluggish beds;
But why we wake, or why we rise,
Comes seldom in our heads.
Is it to sweat, and toyl for wealth,
Or sport our time away,
That thou preserv'st us still in health,
And giv'st us this new day?
No, no, unskilful Soul, not so,
Be not deceiv'd with toys;
Thy Lord's Commands more wisely go,
And aim at higher joys:
They bid us wake to seek new Grace,
And some fresh vertue gain;
They call us up to mend our pace
Till we the prize attain.
That glorious Prize, for which all run
Who wisely spend their breath;
Who, when this weary life is done,
Are sure of Rest in Death.
Not such a rest as here we prove,
Disturb'd with Cares and Fears;
But endless Joy, and Peace, and Love,
The Pleasures of the Spheres.
Glory to thee, O bounteous Lord,
Who giv'st to all things breath;
Glory to thee, Eternal Word,
Who sav'st us by thy death.
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Who fill'st our Souls with Love;
Glory to all the mystick Three,
Who reign one God above.
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