Divine raptvres or piety in poesie Digested Into a Queint Diversity of sacred fancies. Composed by Tho. Iordan |
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The Melancholicke Soules comfort.
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 | Divine raptvres or piety in poesie |  |
The Melancholicke Soules comfort.
O that I had a sweete melodious voice!
O that I could obtaine the chiefest choice
Of sweetest musicke! pre-thee David lend
Thy well-resounding harpe, that I may send
Some praises to my God: I know not how
To pay by songs my heart-resolved vow:
How shall I sing good God? thou dost afford
Ten thousand mercies, trebled songs O Lord
Cannot requite thee! O that I could pay
With lifetime songs the mercies of one day!
I oft beginne to sing, and then before
My songs halfe finisht, God gives sense for more.
O that I could obtaine the chiefest choice
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Thy well-resounding harpe, that I may send
Some praises to my God: I know not how
To pay by songs my heart-resolved vow:
How shall I sing good God? thou dost afford
Ten thousand mercies, trebled songs O Lord
Cannot requite thee! O that I could pay
With lifetime songs the mercies of one day!
I oft beginne to sing, and then before
My songs halfe finisht, God gives sense for more.
Alas poore soule art puzzeld? canst not bring
Thy God some honour though thou strive to sing?
The Cause is this, thou art become his debter
Heele make thee play on musicke that is better.
Thy God some honour though thou strive to sing?
The Cause is this, thou art become his debter
Heele make thee play on musicke that is better.
I Cannot play, my sobs doe stop my course,
My grones doe make my musicke sound the worse.
My grones doe make my musicke sound the worse.
What nought but grones? ah shall th'Almighties eares
Be fild with sighes all vsherd in with teares?
Be fild with sighes all vsherd in with teares?
I this is musicke: such a tune prolongs
Gods love, and makes him listen to thy songs:
Tis this that makes his ravisht soule draw nigher,
Tis this outstrips the Thracian with his Lyre,
Tis this inchants thy God, tis this alone
That drags thy spouse from heaven to heare thy tone:
No better Musicke then thy sobs and cries,
If not a Davids harpe, get Peters eyes.
Gods love, and makes him listen to thy songs:
Tis this that makes his ravisht soule draw nigher,
Tis this outstrips the Thracian with his Lyre,
Tis this inchants thy God, tis this alone
That drags thy spouse from heaven to heare thy tone:
No better Musicke then thy sobs and cries,
If not a Davids harpe, get Peters eyes.
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