 | Poemata sacra |  |
10
Upon the rest on the Lords day.
The world's Gods Lute; his creatures are the strings;Gods finger gives them motion; Angels sings
Their Hallelujahs to it; on week dayes
God to his glorious self a lesson playes:
For from this Universe so strung, doth flie
A rare, an universall harmonie.
This is Gods weekly musick: yet too long
Tension, he knows, may do his strings some wrong.
A rest to this great Lute he'l not denie,
So doth relax each string, then layes it by.
We all are strings, and fastned to Gods Lute,
Who to this generall musick contribute:
God slacks us from our duties, sees we lack
Some rest; else such weak trebles would soon crack.
| Poemata sacra | |