Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 32, by EDWARD TAYLOR

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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 32, by                 Poet's Biography
First Line: Thy grace, dear lord's my golden wrack, I finde
Last Line: My bells shall then thy praises bravely chime.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature

Thy Grace, Dear Lord's my golden Wrack, I finde
Screwing my Phancy into ragged Rhimes,
Tuning thy Praises in my feeble minde
Until I come to strike them on my Chimes.
Were I an Angell bright, and borrow could
King David's Harp, I would them play on gold.

But plung'd I am, my minde is puzzled,
When I would spin my Phancy thus unspun,
In finest Twine of Praise I'm muzzled.
My tazzled Thoughts twirld into Snick-Snarls run.
Thy Grace, my Lord, is such a glorious thing,
It doth Confound me when I would it sing.

Eternall Love an Object mean did smite
Which by the Prince of Darkness was beguilde,
That from this Love it ran and sweld with spite
And in the way with filth was all defilde
Yet must be reconcil'd, cleans'd, and begrac'te
Or from the fruits of Gods first Love displac'te.

Then Grace, my Lord, wrought in thy Heart a vent,
Thy Soft hand to his hard worke did goe,
And to the Milke White Throne of Justice went
And entred bond that Grace might overflow,
Hence did thy Person to my Nature ty
And bleed through humane Veans to satisfy.

Oh! Grace, Grace, Grace! this Wealthy Grace doth lay
Her Golden Channells from thy Fathers throne,
Into our Earthen Pitchers to Convay
Heavens Aqua Vitae to us for our own.
O! let thy Golden Gutters run into
My Cup this Liquour till it overflow.

Thine Ordinances, Graces Wine-fats where
Thy Spirits Walkes, and Graces runs doe ly
And Angells waiting stand with holy Cheere
From Graces Conduite Head, with all Supply.
These Vessells full of Grace are, and the Bowls
In which their Taps do run, are pretious Souls.

Thou to the Cups dost say (that Catch this Wine,)
This Liquour, Golden Pipes, and Wine-fats plain,
Whether Paul, Apollos, Cephas, all are thine.
Oh Golden Word! Lord speake it ore again.
Lord Speake it home to me, say these are mine .
My Bells shall then thy Praises bravely chime.

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