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Oh, let my cry come to thy throne !
My cry not poured with tears alone,
(For tears alone are often foul,)
But with the blood of all my soul;
With spirit-sighs, and earnest groans,
Faithful and most repenting moans,
With these I cry, and crying pine,
Till thou both mend, and make me thine.


When first I saw true beauty, and thy joys,
Active as light, and calm without all noise,
Shined on my soul, I felt through all my powers
Such a rich air of sweets, as evening showers,
Fanned by a gentle gale, convey, and breathe
On some parched bank, crowned with a flowery wreath;
Odours, and myrrh, and balm in one rich flood
O'erran my heart, and spirited my blood;
My thoughts did swim in comforts, and mine eye
Confessed, “The world did only paint and lie.'
And where before I did no safe course steer,
But wandered under tempests all the year;
Went bleak and bare in body as in mind,
And was blown through by every storm and wind,
I am so warmed now by this glance on me,
That ʼmidst all storms I feel a ray of thee.
So have I known some beauteous passage rise
In sudden flowers and arbours to my eyes,
And in the depth and dead of winter bring
To my cold thoughts a lively sense of spring.

Thus fed by thee, who dost all beings nourish,
My withered leaves again look green and flourish;
I shine and shelter underneath thy wing,
Where, sick with love, I strive thy name to sing;

Thy glorious name! which grant I may so do,
That these may be thy praise, and my joy too !


Lord Jesus ! with what sweetness and delights,
Sure, holy hopes, high joys, and quickening flights,
Dost thou feed thine ! O thou ! the hand that lifts
To him who gives all good and perfect gifts,
Thy glorious, bright ascension, though removed
So many ages from me, is so proved
And by thy Spirit sealed to me, that I
Feel me a sharer in thy victory!

I soar and rise

Up to the skies,
Leaving the world their day;

And in my flight

For the true light

Go seeking all the way; T

greet thy sepulchre, salute thy grave, That blest enclosure, where the angels gave The first glad tidings of thy early light, And resurrection from the earth and night. I see that morning in thy convert's1 tears, Fresh as the dew, which but this dawning wears. I smell her spices; and her ointment yields As rich a scent as the now primrosed fields. The day-star smiles, and light with the deceased Now shines in all the chambers of the east. What stirs, what posting intercourse and mirth Of saints and angels glorify the earth? What sighs, what whispers, busy stops and stays, Private and holy talk, fill all the ways? They pass as at the last great day, and run

Thy convert:' St Mary Magdalene.

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In their white robes to seek the risen Sun;
I see them, hear them, mark their haste, and move
Amongst them, with them, winged with faith and love.
Thy forty days' more secret commerce here
After thy death and funeral, so clear
And indisputable, shows to my sight
As the sun doth, which to those days gave light.
I walk the fields of Bethany, which shine
All now as fresh as Eden, and as fine.
Such was the bright world on the first seventh day,
Before man brought forth sin, and sin decay;
When like a virgin clad in flowers and green
The pure earth sat, and the fair woods had seon
No frost, but flourished in that youthful vest
With which their great Creator had them dressed:
When heaven above them shined like molten glass,
While all the planets did unclouded pass;
And springs, like dissolved pearls, their streams did pour,
Ne'er marred with floods, nor angered with a shower.
With these fair thoughts I move in this fair place,
And the last steps of my mild Master trace.
I see him leading out his chosen train
All sad with tears, which like warm summer rain
In silent drops steal from their holy eyes,
Fixed lately on the cross, now on the skies.
And now, eternal Jesus! thou dost heave
Thy blessed hands to bless those thou dost leave.
The cloud doth now receive thee, and their sight
Having lost thee, behold two men in white!
Two and no more: What two attest is true,'
Was thine own answer to the stubborn Jew.
Come then, thou faithful Witness! come, dear Lord,
Upon the clouds again to judge this world!



1 Father of lights! what sunny seed,

What glance of day hast thou confined
Into this bird ? To all the breed
This busy ray thou hast assigned;

Their magnetism works all night,

And dreams of paradise and light. 2 Their eyes watch for the morning hue, ,

Their little grain-expelling night
So shines and sings, as if it knew
The path unto the house of light.

It seems their candle, howe'er done,

Was tinned and lighted at the sun. 3 If such a tincture, such a touch,

So firm a longing can empower,
Shall thy own image think it much
To watch for thy appearing hour?

If a mere blast so fill the sail,

Shall not the breath of God prevail? 4 O thou immortal light and heat !

Whose hand so shines through all this frame,
That by the beauty of the seat,
We plainly see who made the same,

Seeing thy seed abides in me,

Dwell thou in it, and I in thee! 5 To sleep without thee is to die;

Yea, 'tis a death partakes of hell:
For where thou dost not close the

eye It never opens,

I can tell.
In such a dark, Egyptian border,

The shades of death dwell, and disorder.

6 If joys, and hopes, and earnest throes,

And hearts, whose pulse beats still for light,
Are given to birds; who, but thee, knows
A love-sick soul's exalted flight?

Can souls be tracked by any eye
But his, who gave them wings to fly?

7 Only this veil which thou hast broke,

And must be broken yet in me,
This veil, I say, is all the cloak
And cloud which shadows me from thee.

This veil thy full-eyed love denies,
And only gleams and fractions spies.

8 Oh, take it off! make no delay;

But brush me with thy light, that I
May shine unto a perfect day,
And warm me at thy glorious eye!

Oh, take it off! or till it flee,
Though with no lily, stay with me!


1 Dear friend, sit down, and bear awhile this shade,

As I have yours long since. This plant you see
So pressed and bowed, before sin did degrade

and it, had equal liberty


2 With other trees; but now, shut from the breath

And air of Eden, like a malcontent
It thrives nowhere. This makes these weights,

And sin, hang at him; for the more he's bent

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