A27017:2135
The Saints' Everlasting Rest
The saints everlasting rest, or, A treatise of the blessed state of the saints in their enjoyment of God in glory wherein is showed its excellency and certainty, the misery of those that lose it, the way to attain it, and assurance of it, and how to live in the continual delightful forecasts of it and now published by Richard Baxter ...The saints everlasting rest, or, A treatise of the blessed state of the saints in their enjoyment of God in glory wherein is shewed its excellency and certainty, the misery of those that lose it, the way to attain it, and assurance of it, and how to live in the continual delightful forecasts of it and now published by Richard Baxter ...
London: printed by Rob. White for Thomas Underhil and Francis Tyton, 1650
Modern spelling is a reading aid: the words are the author’s, only the spelling is modernized. Original shows the page as printed, with the transcription marks.
With one small sigh thou gavest me th'' other day, I blasted all the joys about me; And scowling on them as they pined away, Now come again, said I, and flout me. O show thy self to me. Or take me up to thee.
With one small sigh thou gav'st me th' other day, I blasted all the joyes about me; And scouling on them as they pin'd away, Now come again, said I, and flout me. O shew thy self to me. Or take me up to thee.
Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake Which way so ere I look, I see: Some may dream merrily; but when they wake They dress themselves, and come to thee. O show thy self to me, Or take me up to thee.
Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake Which way so ere I look, I see: Some may dream merrily; but when they wake They dress themselves, and come to thee. O shew thy self to me, Or take me up to thee.
We talk of Harvests: there are no such things, But when we leave our Corn and Hay: There is no fruitful year, but that which bring's The last and loved, though dreadful day. O show thy self to me, Or take me up to thee.
We talk of Harvests: there are no such things, But when we leave our Corn and Hay: There is no fruitful yeer, but that which bring's The last and lov'd, though dreadful day. O shew thy self to me, Or take me up to thee.