Hymn LVII. A Hymn of Life-eternall.
[_]
That we may not be deluded by the vain pleasures, or
discouraged by the afflictions of this life; The excellencies
of Life-eternall are here illustrated, and the
Desireablenesse thereof is in some degree expressed by this Hymn.
Sing this as In Sad and Ashy weeds.
[1]
VVhy live I mudling here,
In base and fruitlesse works employ'd?
As if I knew not where
A better Life might be injoy'd?
Since I have sought
And have been taught,
The noblest things to know;
Why should I still,
Retain a Will,
To spend more time below?
2
My Soul, that was not made,
Of flitting Aire, or mouldring clay;
Intelligence hath had,
Of more, then words can well display.
The things we see,
But shaddows be,
Of those, which will appear:
Are nothing els
But Tipes and Shells,
Which Time away will weare.
3
There is a blessed-Place,
(If Place, eternall things contain)
Whereto, I hope to passe,
When here I must no more remain.
There is a Life,
In which no griefe,
No pain, no Fear, is found;
And (more then this)
It yeelds that Blisse,
Which doth admit no Bound.
4
My Hope, and my Belief
That of this Life I shall partake,
Cures all my present Grief,
And, of my Pains, doth Pleasures make.
The thought of it,
Makes me remit
The Spights of those poore-things,
Who Dominere
On mole-hils, here
Like foolish Pettie-kings.
5
VVhen, thither I am gone,
The Love of Worldlings, or their Hate,
VVill not be thought upon;
Nor marr, nor better my estate.
To misse, or have,
What most men crave,
(Who love this lothed Place,)
Will, there, to me
No Pleasure be;
No Honour, or Disgrace.
6
That Life, who ever lives,
Not only, blessed therein, is,
But, thereby, also, gives
Perfection to the Common-blisse.
It, open sets
The Cabanets,
VVherein contained be
Those Rarities,
Which mortall eies,
Shall never come to see.
7
In One, to sum up all,
Which of that life, we may declare;
Him, there, behold we shall,
In, and By whom, all Creatures are:
And, not alone,
Then, look upon
That, most-beloved Sight:
But, gain by Grace,
His free embrace;
With fulnesse, of Delight.
8
Oh! thither; thither, Lord!
And to this Life, my Soul convay;
From this, which is abhord,
And, unto Death, a tedious way.
I have gone wrong,
From thee, too long;
For which I grieved am:
And, I shall mourn,
Till I return,
To thee from whom I came.
