The first muse.
1
O eare soule thou hast thought of thy end
And novve muse on the vvay,
The first part is a life vvell spent,
The last is deaths doomes day.
2
Shall I call that the vvay of vvoe
By vvhich vve passe to blisse?
O sure there is noe vvay but that
To bring me vvhere Christ is.
3
And vvhat is death novve dost thou thinke?
But dovvne vvith all the stickes,
Of vvhich this earth, & tent of ours
Is made, that gainst god kickes.
4
Death is the farevvell of old frends,
Till they meete to be blest,
Death is the iudge to quitt frō iayle,
The soule that longs for rest.
5
Death makes the corps of clay to sleep
But vvakes the soule to see,
Death payes the debte, & teares the bone
And all to sett thee free.
6
There is a death of deaths my soule
The death of hell, and vvoe,
But Christ his death hath payd for that
His vvord doth tell thee soe.
7
O Christ my soule doth thinke on thee
And thankes thee day, and night
That thou hast rid me frō this death
By thy great povver, and might.
1. Thought.
Thy Christ o soule hath set them
free vvho through feare of death vvere
all their life time in bonds and thrall.
Heb. 2. 15.
