Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DIVINE POEMS: THE LORD COMETH WITH TEN THOUSAND OF HIS SAINTS, by JOHN HALL (1627-1656)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DIVINE POEMS: THE LORD COMETH WITH TEN THOUSAND OF HIS SAINTS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I hear and tremble! Lord, what shall I do
Last Line: Come, come, my lambs, to joy! Come, come away!
Alternate Author Name(s): Hall Of Durham, John
Subject(s): Religion; Theology


I HEAR and tremble! Lord, what shall I do
T' avoid thy anger? whither shall I go?
What, shall I scale the mountains? 'las! they be
Far less than atoms if compar'd with thee.
What, shall I strive to get myself a tomb
Within the greedy ocean's swelling womb?
Shall I dive into rocks? Where shall I fly
The sure discovery of thy piercing eye?
Alas! I know not; though with many a tear
In Hell they moan thy absence, thou art there;
Thou art on earth, and well observest all
The actions acted on this massy ball;
And when thou look'st on mine, what can I say?
I dare not stand, nor can I run away.
Thine eyes are pure, and cannot look upon
(And what else, Lord, am I?) corruption.
Thou hatest sins; and if thou once begin
To cast me in the scales, I all am sin.
Thou still continuest one, O Lord; I range
In various forms of crimes, and love my change.
Lord, thou that mad'st me, bid'st I should present
My heart unto thee; O, see how 'tis rent
By various monsters; see how fastly held,
How stubbornly they do deny to yield.
How shall I stand, when that thou shalt be hurl'd
On clouds, in robes of fire to judge the world,
Usher'd with golden legions, in thine eye
Carrying an all-enraged majesty,
That shall the earth into a palsy stroke,
And make the clouds sigh out themselves in smoke?
How can I stand? Yes, Lord, I may; although
Thou beest the judge, thou art a party too;
Thou sufferest for these faults, for which thou shall
Arraign me, Lord; thou sufferest for them all;
They are not mine at all, these wounds of thine,
That on thy glorious side so brightly shine,
Seal'd me a pardon; in those wounds th' are hid,
And in that side of thine th' are buried.
Lord, smile again upon us; with what grace
Doth mercy sit enthroniz'd on thy face!
How did that scarlet sweat become thee, when
That sweat did wash away the filth of men!
How did those peevish thorns adorn thy brow?
Each thorn more richly than a gem did glow!
Yet by those thorns (Lord, how thy love abounds!)
Are we, poor worms, made capable of crowns.
Come so to judgement, Lord! th' Apostles shall
No more into their drowsy slumber fall,
But stand and hearken how the judge shall say,
Come, come, my lambs, to joy! Come, come away!





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