Classic Poem

My Gracious Lord, I would thee glory doe;
But finde my Garden over grown with weeds:
My Soile is sandy; brambles o're it grow;
My Stock is stunted; branch no good Fruits breeds.
My Garden weed: Fatten my Soile, and prune
My Stock, and make it with thy glory bloome.

O Glorious One, the gloriou'st thought I thincke
Of thee falls black as Inck upon thy Glory.
The brightest Saints that rose, do Star like, pinck.
Nay, Abrams Shine to thee's an Allegory,
Or fleeting Sparke in th' Smoke, to typify
Thee, and thy Glorious Selfe in mystery.

Should all the Sparks in heaven, the Stars there dance
A Galliard, Round about the Sun, and stay
His Servants (while on Easter morn his prance
Is o're, which old wives prate of) O brave Play.
Thy glorious Saints thus boss thee round, which stand
Holding thy glorious Types out in their hand.

But can I thinck this Glory greate, its head
Thrust in a pitchy cloude, should strangled ly
Or tucking up its beams should go to bed
Within the Grave, darke me to glorify?
This Mighty thought my hearts too streight for, though
I hold it by the hand, and let not goe.

Then, my Blesst Lord, let not the Bondmaids type
Take place in mee. But thy blesst Promisd Seed.
Distill thy Spirit through thy royall Pipe
Into my Soule, and so my Spirits feed,
Then them, and me still into praises right
Into thy Cup where I to swim delight.

Though I desire so much, I can't o're doe.
All that my Can contains, to nothing comes
When summed up, it onely Cyphers grows
Unless thou set thy Figures to my Sums.
Lord set thy Figure 'fore them, greate, or small.
To make them something, and I'l give thee all.