Classic Poem

Gold in its Ore, must melted be, to bring
It midwift from its mother womb: requires
To make it shine and a rich market thing,
A fining Pot, and Test, and melting fire.
So do I, Lord, before thy grace do shine
In mee, require, thy fire may mee refine.

My Flame hath left its Coale, my fire's gone t'bed:
Like Embers in their ashie lodgen gray.
Lord let the Influences of thy head
Most graciously remoove this rug away.
If with the Bellows of thy grace thou blow
My ashes off, thy Coale will shine, and glow.

Thy Clay, and Mine, out of one pit are dug:
Although with Spades of vastest differing kinde.
Thine all bright Godhead: mine of mortall Wood.
Thine shod with Glory; Mine with Sin all rin'de.
Thy Soule, and Mine made of one minerall
And each made regent o're their Clayie Hall.

But oh! alas! mine's Wall is worm-hold, and
My House and Household sogd with noisom Sin
And no reliefe can have in Creature's hand
While thine all Sparkling Shines without, and in,
Fild with all Grace, and Graces Fullness all
Adorning of thy Household and thy Hall.

But woe is mee. Unclean I am: my Slips!
Lord, let a Seraphim a live Coale take
Off of thine Altar, with it touch my lips.
And purge away my Sins for mercys sake.
I thus do pray finding thy Cask within
With Grace, and graces fulness fild to th'brim.

I empty, thou top full, of Grace! Lord, take
A Gracious Cluster of thy glorious grace
And busk it in my bosom, Sweet to make
It, and my life: and gracious, in thy face.
If thou with gracious Sweetness sweeten mee
My Life with Grace sweetly perfum'de shall bee.

Can I a graceless member be of thee,
While that thy hand's a Spring of Grace? and Heart
All gracious is to give? Then influence mee
With thy free Grace. Thou art my lovely marke.
When thy rich Grace doth tune my Song, sung high
Thy Glory then shall rise its melody.