LONGING FOR HEAVEN by ANNE BRADSTREET

As weary pilgrim now at rest
Hugs with delight his silent nest,
His wasted limbes now lye full soft
That myrie steps have troden oft,
Blesses himself to think upon
his dangers past and travailes done;
The burning sun no more shall heat;
Nor stormy raines on him shall beat;
The bryars and thornes no more shall scratch,
nor hungry wolves at him shall catch;
He erring pathes no more shall tread,
nor wild fruits eate in stead of bread;
For waters cold he doth not long,
for thirst no more shall parch his tongue;
No rugged stones his feet shall gaule,
nor stumps nor rocks cause him to fall;
All cares and feares he bids farwell,
and meanes in safity now to dwell:
A pilgrim I on earth perplext,
with sinns, with cares and sorrows vext,
By age and paines brought to decay,
and my Clay house mouldring away,
Oh how I long to be at rest
and soare on high among the blest!
This body shall in silence sleep,
Mine eyes no more shall ever weep,
No fainting fits shall me assaile,
nor grinding paines my body fraile,
With cares and fears ne'r cumbred be,
Nor losses know nor sorrowes see.
What tho my flesh shall there consume?
it is the bed Christ did perfume;
And when a few yeares shall be gone,
this mortall shall be cloth'd upon:
A Corrupt Carcasse downe it lyes,
a glorious body it shall rise;
In weaknes and dishonour sowne,
in power 't is rais'd by Christ alone.
Then soule and body shall unite,
and of their maker have the sight.
Such lasting joyes shall there behold
as eare ne'r heard nor tongue e'er told.
Lord, make me ready for that day:
then Come, deare bridgrome, Come away!

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