Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 34, by EDWARD TAYLOR

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PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 34, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: My lord I fain would praise thee well but finde
Last Line: This triumph o're the grave! Death where's thy sting?
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature

My Lord I fain would Praise thee Well but finde
Impossibilities blocke up my pass.
My tongue Wants Words to tell my thoughts, my Minde
Wants thoughts to Comprehend thy Worth, alas!
Thy Glory far Surmounts my thoughts, my thoughts
Surmount my Words: Hence little Praise is brought.

But seing Non-Sense very Pleasant is
To Parents, flowing from the Lisping Child,
I Conjue to thee, hoping thou in this
Will finde some hearty Praise of mine Enfoild,
But though my pen drop'd golden Words, yet would
Thy Glory far out shine my Praise in Gold.

Poor wretched man Deaths Captive stood full Chuffe
But thou my Gracious Lord didst finde reliefe,
Thou King of Glory didst, to handy cuff
With King of Terrours, and dasht out his Teeth,
Plucktst out his sting, his Poyson quelst, his head
To pieces brakest. Hence Cruell Death lies Dead.

And still thou by thy gracious Chymistry
Dost of his Carkass Cordialls make rich, High,
To free from Death makst Death a remedy:
A Curb to Sin, a Spur to Piety.
Heavens brightsom Light shines out in Death's Dark Cave.
The Golden Dore of Glory is the Grave.

The Painter lies who pensills death's Face grim
With White bare butter Teeth, bare staring bones,
With Empty Eyeholes, Ghostly Lookes which fling
Such Dread to see as raiseth Deadly groans,
For thou hast farely Washt Deaths grim grim face
And made his Chilly finger-Ends drop grace.

Death Tamde, Subdude, Washt fair by thee! Oh Grace!
Made Usefull thus! thou unto thine dost say
Now Death is yours, and all it doth in't brace.
The Grave's a Down bed now made for your clay.
Oh! Happiness! How should our Bells hereby
Ring Changes, Lord, and praises trust with joy.

Say I am thine, My Lord: Make me thy bell
To ring thy Praise. Then Death is mine indeed
A Hift to Grace, a Spur to Duty; Spell
To Fear; a Frost to nip each naughty Weede.
A Golden doore to Glory. Oh I'le sing
This Triumph o're the Grave! Death where's thy Sting?

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