THE PULLEY

      When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by,
  "Let us," said he, "pour on him all we can;
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
       Contract into a span."

       So strength first made a way;
Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure;
   When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that alone of all his treasure,
      Rest in the bottom lay.

       "For if I should," said he,
"Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
   He would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
       So both should losers be.

       "Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness;
     Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
        May toss him to my breast."
 

The Altar.

                  A  broken   A L T A R,  Lord,  thy  servant  reares,
                   Made  of  a  heart,  and  cemented  with   teares:
                      Whose  parts  are as  thy  hand did frame;
                      No workmans tool hath touch'd the same.
                             A    H E A R T   alone
                             Is     such    a   stone,
                              As     nothing      but
                             Thy  pow'r doth  cut.
                              Wherefore each part
                             Of   my   hard   heart
                             Meets  in  this  frame,
                             To  praise thy  Name;
                     That,   if   I   chance   to   hold   my   peace,
                     These stones to praise thee may not cease.
                 O  let  thy   blessed   S A C  R  I  F  I C E   be  mine,
                  And    sanctifie   this   A  L  T  A  R   to   be   thine.
 

Easter Wings

                    Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
                         Though foolishly he lost the same,
                            Decaying more and more
                                Till he became
                                 Most poor:
                                  With thee
                                 O let me rise
                             As larks, harmoniously,
                          And sing this day thy victories:
                      Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

                        My tender age in sorrow did begin:
                        And still with sicknesses and shame
                            Thou didst so punish sin,
                                That I became
                                  Most thin.
                                  With thee
                               Let me combine,
                           And feel this day thy victory;
                          For, if I imp my wing on thine,
                       Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
 

Love (3)

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
     Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
     From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
     If I lack'd anything.

A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here:
     Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
     I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
     Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
     Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
     My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
     So I did sit and eat.