Classic Poem

My heart is broken (oh my God)
Breake mee not like a potters vessell,
Bruse mee not with an iron rodde,
But forme mee by thy holy Chesill,
That I a statue may become,
Fitt to adorne thy heavenly roome.

The Figge tree yeildes a fruite that's sweet,
Yet is unprofitable wood;
For Sculptour's art it is unmeete,
And neither serves for saint, or Roode:
For Vulcan's use it is unfitt,
His bellowes doe no good on it.

But I that wretched Tree am, which
The hunger of my Christ deceives,
Hee fruite expects, but I am rich
In nothing but vaine spreadeing leaves,
Nor am I wood so fitt, and apt
That of mee can a saint bee shap't.

Yea, I am that same Figgetree vaine,
Which in Christs vineyard planted was,
Drest many yeares with care, and paine,
Yet onely serve to fill a place:
I therefore feare the axes wound,
Bicause I comber but the ground.

(Lord) in mee repayre (by thy grace)
The image Thou dids't first create:
Though Adams sinne did it deface,
Yet Mine, did it more vitiate:
Vouchsafe t'amend it with thy hand,
Then in thy Gallr'y it may stand.