Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 44, by EDWARD TAYLOR

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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 44, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: A crown, lord, yea, a crown of righteousness
Last Line: Thy glory bring I tuckt up in my songe.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature

A Crown, Lord, yea, a Crown of Righteousness.
Oh! what a Gift is this? Give Lord I pray
An Holy Head, and Heart it to possess
And I shall give thee glory for the pay.
A Crown is brave, and Righteousness much more.
The glory of them both will pay the score.

A Crown indeed consisting of fine gold
Adherent, and Inherent Righteousness,
Stuck with their Ripe Ripe Fruits in every fold
Like studded Carbuncles they do it dress.
A Righteous Life doth ever ware renown
And thrusts the Head at last up in this Crown.

A Milk whit hand sets't on a Righteous Head.
An hand Unrighteous can't dispose it nay
It's not in such an hande. Such hands would bed
Black Smuts on't should they fingers on it lay.
Who can the Crown of Righteousness suppose
In an Unrighteous hand for to dispose.

When once upon the head its ever green
And altogether Usde in Righteousness,
Where blessed bliss, and blissfull Peace is seen,
And where no jar, nor brawler hath access.
Oh! blessed Crown what hold the breadth of all
The State of Happiness in Heavens Hall.

A Crown of Righteousness, a Righteous Head,
Oh naughty man! my brain pan turrit is
Where Swallows build, and hatch: Sins black and red.
My head and heart do ach, and frob at this.
Lord were my Turret cleansd, and made by thee
Thy Graces Dovehouse turret much might bee.

Oh! make it so: then Righteousness pure, true
Shall Roost upon my boughs, and in my heart
And all its fruits that in Obedience grew
To stud this Crown like jems in every part.
Ist then be garnisht for this Crown, and thou
Shalt have my Songs to diadem thy brow.

Oh! Happy me, if thou wilt Crown me thus.
Oh! naughty heart! What swell with Sin? fy, fy.
Oh! Gracious Lord, me pardon: do not Crush
Me all to mammocks: Crown and not destroy.
Ile tune thy Prayses while this Crown doth come.
Thy Glory bring I tuckt up in my Songe.

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