Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 128, by EDWARD TAYLOR

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PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 128, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: My deare-deare lord, my heart is lodgd in thee
Last Line: And sing thy glories praise in glories glee.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature

My Deare-Deare Lord, my Heart is Lodgd in thee:
Thy Person lodgd in bright Divinity
And waring Cloaths made of the best web bee
Wove in the golde Loom of Humanity.
All lin'de and overlaide with Wealthi'st lace
The finest Silke of Sanctifying Grace.

Hence ev'ry minim of thy Humane Frame.
Deckt up with Nature's brave perfections right,
And Decorated with rich Grace, Whose Flame
In Sparkling Shines do ravish with delight
So that thy Nature, and its Acts all shine
And never miss the Right an Haire breadth fine.

Thy Soule Divine arrayde in Splendent Grace,
The Spirituall Temple pinckt with precious Stones:
Like Sparks of Glory glaze thy Spirits Face
And glorious make thy Will with graces tones.
Not one black tittle ere is in it found
To dim the Shine that in it doth abound.

Thy Soules a Spirituall Treasury, in Which
Are Precious Stones and Spirituall Jewells laid
The Spirits Spicery the gold mine rich
Of Precious Grace. And Graces Sugar Trade,
The Warehouse of all Humane thoughts well Wrought
In which there never came an Evill thought.

Thy Eares and Nose ware Graces Jewells bright.
Thy Sight walks out in Graces Paradise:
Thy Smell is Courted with perfum'de delight.
Thy Garden Flowers breath sweeter breath than Spice:
But if the Serpent on these objects spit
Sighs from thy Soul blow hence the venom quick.

Thy Feet o're burnished with glorious Grace
Make all right Steps and not one strey awry
Leave Every foot step guilt with grace, a trace
And golden track unto Celestial Joy.
Thy Tongue's tipt with sweet Heavenly Rhetorick
Ne're spake amiss. Grace from thy lips doth skip.

Thy Hands, milk white, were never yet beguil'd
In Graces Almond milke washt ware no Spot.
Thy fingers never toucht what Sin defilde.
Grace at thy fingers ends doth ever drop.
Thy Head's a golden Pot of Manna fine
A Silver Tower of Gospell Weapons Prime.

Oh! what a glorious Lord have I? See here
When in the Gospell Glass his Beams dart on
The Bride's twelve bridemaids looking on him cleare
And make them ask, Where, Whither is he gone?
Oh! Whither's thy Beloved bright declinde
Declare, thou fairest of All Woman kinde.

Our heart is ravisht with his glory bright.
Oh! Whither Whither is he turned aside?
Wee now indeed do greatly wish we might
Him seeke with thee, His Spouse and blessed Bride!
That happiness lodg'd in his Glorious face
Will thence when seen slide int'our Hearts with Grace.

Lord, let thy Glorious Excellencies flame
Fall through thy Gospells Looking Glass with might,
Upon my frozen heart, and thaw the Same
And it inflame with flaming Love most Light
That in this flame my heart may ride to thee,
And sing thy Glories Praise in Glories glee.

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