Poetical fragments heart-employment with God and it selfPoetical fragments heart-imployment with God and it self

Death also further taught me how to pray, And made me cry unto thee every day; It set me on the trying of my state, Lest I should prove deceived when 'twas too late. Often and carefully I searched my heart, Whether in Christ by Faith I had a part? ⟨p. 37⟩It showed me so much work to do at home, That alien needless matters found small room. It curbed my Pride, and buried my Ambition; Made me, not only bear a low condition, But choose it; and all things to estimate, As God, my Soul, and Heaven should set the rate. For now, as clearly as I saw the Sun, I saw in lines which they may read that run, That Endless things are All, when we compare, And transitory trifles Nothing are: That Worldlings in their sleep do talk and go, And all their lives are but a dreaming show: Only the true Believer lives awake, And doth not spend his days in mere mistake: That all who are not Saints, are worse than Brutes. These, O my Father! were thy Rod's first-fruits. O my Dear God! how precious is thy Love? Thus we rebound up to the Joys above.

Death also further taught me how to pray, And made me cry unto thee every day; It set me on the trying of my state, Lest I should prove deceiv'd when 'twas too late. Often and carefully I searcht my heart, Whether in Christ by Faith I had a part? ⟨p. 37⟩It shew'd me so much work to do at home, That alien needless matters found small room. It curb'd my Pride, and buryed my Ambition; Made me, not only bear a low condition, But chuse it; and all things to estimate, As God, my Soul, and Heav'n should set the rate. For now, as clearly as I saw the Sun, I saw in lines which they may read that run, That Endless things are All, when we compare, And transitory trifles Nothing are: That Worldlings in their sleep do talk and go, And all their lives are but a dreaming shew: Only the true Believer lives awake, And doth not spend his daies in meer mistake: That all who are not Saints, are worse than Brutes. These, O my Father! were thy Rod's first-fruits. O my Dear God! how precious is thy Love? Thus we rebound up to the Joyes above.