Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 84, by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 84, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Hast made me, lord, one of thy garden beds?
Last Line: Thy glory tun'de on my perfumed string.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


Hast made mee, Lord, one of thy Garden Beds?
And myrrhiz'd mee with bitter Exercise?
Stubd up the Brush, toore up the Turfy head?
And Combt it with thy Harrow teeth likewise?
Hast set therein thy Myrrhy Trees, that so
Sweet Spice might in this Garden bed forth flow?

This Bitter myrrh will keep Corruption out
Will kill the Worms that Worm hole do my heart:
Will breath sweet breath of rich perfumes about,
That sweetest Sents though bitter tast impart.
Such med'cine, Lord, I lack my Sin to calm,
To kill Corruption and my Soule Embalm.

But doth thy Myrrh tree Flowrish in my Soule?
Doth it bleed Myrrh, and Myrrhy blossoms beare?
Do thy Convictions bring mee to Condole
My Sinfulness with griefe, Hearts bitter fare?
And pickle up my Soule in teares whereby
My Sins are mortifi'de repentingly?

Is this the State, Lord, of my Garden Bed?
And com'st thou in thy Garden, Lord, anew?
And gatherst thou thy Myrrh that's therein bred
With thy Sweet Spices? Oh! this matter shew.
Thy bitter Myrrh that then my Sins doth quell,
Will mee revive with its sweet gracious Smell.

How graciously then dost thou deale with mee,
Wrapping this bitter myrrh in Odours sweet?
Tho'ts bitter rellish yet sweet sented wee
Do finde it: when our Senses do it greet.
Its bitter kills the Vermin in my Hive:
The Sweetness makes my inward man revive.

This myrrh in killing putrid vermin Sins,
Will keep my Soule from putrifying here,
Will ease the Conscience of its dreadfull Stings:
And sweeten all with its perfumed Cheere.
Thou art delighted in this Myrrh For Why?
Thou dost it gather with thy Spice, oh! Joy.

Then spice my Soule, Lord, with sweet myrrh that drops
Off of my Myrrh tree in thy garden Bed.
Thou gatherdst with thy Spice, this garden Crops
Thy Garden bore thee. Oh! Choice Crop it bred.
Apply this Myrrh on me, and on mee keep't.
My Soules Cure lies indeed in Bitter-Sweet.

If with thy Myrrh, thou curs't my mallody
Which hitherto hinders my Songs of Praise
And with its spicy gales that from it fly,
Thou dost perfume my Spirits, Songs to raise.
My Spirits stufft with sweetest joy will bring
Thy Glory tun'de on my perfumed String.





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