Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: EXTASY OF JOY ..., by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: EXTASY OF JOY ..., by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: My sweet deare lord, for thee I'le live, dy, fight
Last Line: In ravishing tunes most sweet.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


My Sweet Deare Lord, for thee I'le Live, Dy, Fight.
Gracious indeed! My Front! my Rear!
Almighty magnify a Mite:
O! What a Wonder's here?

Had I ten thousand times ten thousand hearts:
And Every Heart ten thousand Tongues;
To praise, I should but stut odd parts
Of what to thee belongs.

If all the world did in Alimbeck ly,
Bleeding its Spirits out in Sweat;
It could not halfe enlife a Fly
To Hum thy Praises greate.

If all can't halfe enlife a Fly to hum,
(Which scarce an Animall we call)
Thy Praises then which from me come,
Come next to none at all.

For I have made myselfe ten thousand times
More naught than nought itselfe, by Sin.
Yet thou extendst thy Gracious Shines
For me to bath therein.

Oh! Stand amaizd yee Angells Bright, come run
Yee Glorious Heavens and Saints, to sing:
Place yee your praises in the sun,
Ore all the world to ring.

Nay stand agast, ye sparkling Spirits bright!
Shall little Clods of Dust you peere?
Shall they toote Praises on your pipe?
Oh! that we had it here.

What can a Crumb of Dust sally such praise
Which do from Earth all heaven o're ring
Who swaddle up the suns bright rayes
Can in a Flesh Flie's Wing?

Can any Ant stand on the Earth and spit
Another out to peer with this?
Or Drink the Ocean up, and yet
Its belly empty is?

Thou may'st this World as easily up hide
Under the Blackness of thy naile:
As scape Sins Gulph without a Guide:
Or Hell without a bale.

If all the Earthy Mass were rambd in Sacks
And saddled on an Emmet small,
Its Load were light unto those packs
Which Sins do bring on all.

But sure this burden'd Emmet moves no wing.
Nay, nay, Compar'd with thee, it flies.
Yet man is easd his weight of Sin.
From hell to Heav'n doth rise.

When that the World was new, its Chiefe Delight,
One Paradise alone Contain'de:
The Bridle of Mans Appetite
The Appletree refrain'de.

The which he robbing, eat the fruit as good,
Whose Coare hath Chokd him and his race.
And juyce hath poyson'd all their blood,
He's in a Dismall Case.

None can this Coare remove, Poyson expell:
He, if his Blood ben't Clarifi'de
Within Christs veans, must fry in Hell,
Till God be satisfi'de.

Christ to his Father saith, Incarnate make
Mee, Mee thy Son; and I will doe't:
I'le purify his Blood, and take
The Coare out of his Throate.

All this he did, and did for us, vile Clay:
Oh! let our Praise his Grace assaile.
To free us from Sins Gulph each way,
He's both our Bridge, and Raile.

Although we fall and Fall, and Fall and Fall
And Satan fall on us as fast.
He purgeth us and doth us call
Our trust on him to Cast.

My Lumpish Soule why art thou hamper'd thus
Within a Crumb of Dust? Arise,
Trumpet out Praises. Christ for us
Hath slain our Enemies.

Screw up, Deare Lord, upon the highest pin:
My soul thy ample Praise to sound.
O tune it right, that every string
May make thy praise rebound.

But oh! how slack, slow, dull? with what delay,
Do I this Musick to, repare,
While tabernacled in Clay
My Organs Cottag'de are?

Yet Lord accept this Pittance of thy praise
Which as a Traveller I bring,
While travelling along thy wayes
In broken notes I sing.

And at my journies end in endless joyes
I'l make amends where Angells meet
And sing their flaming Melodies
In Ravishing tunes most sweet.





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