The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/Home
For works with similar titles, see Home.
¶ Home.
COme Lord, my head doth burn, my heart is sick,While thou dost ever, ever stay:Thy long deferrings wound me to the quick,My spirit gaspeth night and day.O show thy self to me,Or take me up to thee!
How canst thou stay, considering the paceThe bloud did make, which thou didst waste?When I behold it trickling down thy face,I never saw thing make such haste,O show thy self to me,Or take me up to thee!
When man was lost, thy pitie lookt aboutTo see what help in th' earth or skie:But there was none; at least no help without:The help did in thy bosome lie.O show thy, &c.
There lay thy sonne: and must he leave that nest,That hive of sweetnesse, to removeThraldome from those, who would not at a feastLeave one poore apple for thy love?O show thy, &c.
He did, he came: O my Redeemer deare,After all this canst thou be strange?So many yeares baptiz'd, and not appeare?As if thy love could fail or change.O show thy, &c.
Yet if thou stayest still, why must I stay?My God, what is this world to me?This world of wo? hence all ye clouds, away,Away; I must get up and see.O show thy, &c.
What is this weary world; this meat and drink,That chains us by the teeth so fast?What is this woman-kinde, which I can winkInto a blacknesse and distaste?O show thy, &c.
With one small sigh thou gav'st me th' other dayI blasted all the joyes about me:And scouling on them as they pin'd away,Now come again, said I, and flout me.O show thy self to me,Or take me up to thee!
Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake,Which way so-e're I look, I see.Some may dream merrily, but when they wake,They dresse themselves and come to thee.O show thy, &c.
We talk of harvests; there are no such things,But when we leave our corn and hay:There is no fruitfull yeare, but that which bringsThe last and lov'd, though dreadfull day.O show thy, &c.
Oh loose this frame, this knot of man untie!That my free soul may use her wing,Which now is pinion'd with mortalitie,As an intangled, hamper'd thing.O show thy, &c.
What have I left, that I should stay and grone?The most of me to heav'n is fled:My thoughts and joyes are all packt up and gone,And for their old acquaintance plead.O show thy, &c.
Come dearest Lord, passe not this holy season,My flesh and bones and joynts do pray:And ev'n my verse, when by the ryme and reasonThe word is, Stay, sayes ever, Come.O show thy self to me,Or rake me up to thee!