Classic Poem

Preserve me, Lord, in this my state
Of trial, and a longer date
To my pursuits allow;
Since to thy glory they redound,
For in thy name my hope I found,
And ratify my vow.

My soul has to the Lord profess'd,
Thou art my God supremely bless'd;
For whom I have declar'd;
The carnal charms that fools entice,
And all the world is of no price
When with thy love compar'd.

My soul's first rapture from my youth
Was for the champions of the truth,
Whose deeds the rest outshine;
Who, God and virtue on their side,
Have Satan and the world defy'd,
With wrath and zeal divine.

But such as from their colours run,
Shall be distracted and undone,
Of Antichrist the seed;
Who hold idolatrous conceits,
And to their images and cheats,
As priests and gods give heed.

I will not mind their house or hour,
When they their vain libations pour,
And hands in blood imbrue;
My lips their names shall not pollute,
Whose lives and rites themselves confute,
Unhallow'd and untrue.

My portion is my Saviour's grace,
Whose invitation I embrace
To his divine repast;
I drink thy cup my sin to blot,
Thou shalt maintain me in my lot,
To whom I feast and fast.

My private lot is fallen fair,
And God, thro' Christ, has made me heir
Of beautiful domains;
To him I give my youth and age,
And lo! a goodly heritage
My faithfulness regains.

My thanks to God shall be preferr'd,
Who gives me warning by his word,
And counsels me to good;
Also my reins by night beware
Of Satan's wiles, which are by pray'r
And vigils best withstood.

My duty lest I should forget,
I still before my eyes have set
Heav'n's omnipresent king;
And his good angel guides my hand,
I shall not therefore fail to stand
The mines that traitors spring.

Hence my glad heart is bound to bless,
And her big gratitude express
In all the pow'rs of praise;
Also my flesh in hope shall sleep,
For soul and body from the deep
Thy conq'ring word shall raise

Thou shalt not leave my soul in hell,
Nor with the wretched fiends that fell
Thy holy one to stay:
The third day, and he shall arise,
Nor shall be like to him that dies,
And turns corrupted clay.

The gates of heav'n thou wilt unfold,
And thy right hand I shall behold
In triumph o'er the tomb;
There dwell the cherub and his mate,
There plenitude of pleasures wait,
And joys eternal bloom.