Classic Poem

Loe! here a sight
Presented to the eye;
A Bush on fire flaming bright,
Yet not consum'd; a wondrous mysterie.

The Bush, the Church,
Affliction is the fire,
Which serves not to destroy, but search
And try her gold, raising the value higher.

It gathers dust,
And sullied is with ease,
Wherefore to rub off all the rust,
To cast it in this fire God doth please.

Whence it comes forth,
Far brighter then before,
And is advanced much in worth:
One pound being equal now unto a score.

This Bush that flame
Could never long withstand,
Unlesse the Lord were in the same;
Tis He that doth uphold it with His hand.

Whiles He is there,
And doth His light dispense,
The heat we need not greatly fear,
How-ere it may seeme grievous to our sense.

For though we be
I' th' fiery furnace cast,
Our faith the Son of God may see,
Preserving of our very haires from waste.

Much more He will
By His Almighty arme
Defend the souls of His Saints still,
That by this fire they shall sustaine no harme.

For this fire shall,
Like that which snatch'd away
The Prophet once, transport them all
From this world's sorrows to a world of joy.