 | Poems |  |
A divine Hymne.
O Thou who art all light, from whose pure beamesThe infant day-light streames,
And to whose Lustre all the throng of stars
Those mystick Characters,
Writ in the dusky volumne of the Night,
Do owe their stocke of Light;
Who when the Sun, i'th nonage of the yeare,
Like a Bridegroom does appeare,
Sweet with the Balmy Perfumes of the East,
With Lights Embroidery drest,
And spangled o're with brightnesse, does array
That Planet with each Ray
He glitters with, a powerfull spark inspire
Of thy Celestiall fire
Into my frozen heart, that there may be
A flame blowne up in me,
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In the dark horison
Of my benighted soul, and thence distill
Into a pious rill
Of contrite tears, those clouds which do controule
The prospect of my soule,
That so the beams of faith may clearly shine
Amidst its Christalline,
That I may by th'infusion of their light
Learn to spell Christs Crosse aright.
And as one touch from Moses did unlock
The casquet of the rock,
And thaw'd its liquid treasures to repell
The thirst of Israel;
So let this flame dissolve that masse of sin
That lies wrapt up within
The chambers of my heart, that there may rise
Two fountaines in my eyes,
Which may put out those scorching flames, which were
First fed and kindled there,
By that same hot Artillery which lust
Into my eye-balls thrust;
And as when Feavers blaze within the blood,
And parch that purple flood,
The sparks and embers of them, are by heat
Still'd from the pores in sweat;
So when sin flames within me and does roule
Its heat about my soule,
And sparkles in each facultie, my eyes
Being lusts Incendiaries.
Oh let this inward sicknesse by that fire
Devotion does inspire,
Be still'd out, at those pores o'th soule, my eies,
In a liquid sacrifice,
Which gathering into one heap, may swell
Into a holy well,
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May bath incessantly,
And having wash'd my festred wounds, may be
Sure both at once of cure and victorie.
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