Classic Poem

The soull patienetly longing after
satisfaction in the full enjoyment of god.

I Long, I thurst, I cannot rest
I feall a constant fire
Which burneth always, in my breast
whilst to thee I aspire.

I cannott here, be filled full.
with'th fullnese of a god
My emptinese, my soull doth pull
and is its weary lott.

This makes me long. most restlesly
thy blessed face to see
Ther shall be no vacuety
left. when engulph'd in thee.

Tis after thee, that I do pine
and cant be satisfi'd
I long to be, beyound times line
where fullnese doth abide.

My thurst, is so far, from b'ing quench'd
thesse sips doth it encrease
Till in loves. ocean I am drench'd
I look not to find ease.

My soull doth tose, and finds no rest
it cannot be content
Till in thy bosome, it doth nest
on thee, tis fully bent.

Because I cant here have my fill
its makes me cry out, when
Shall I get up to Sion hill
I shall be filled then.