The souls complaint sep 27 72

Thou'lt scarsly let me look
but clapst the door too
And leavest not a hole, or nook
at which I may, look through
Thou givest me a tast
and drawst away, in hast.

I cannot have my fill
of what, I somtimes see
That is reserv'd for Zion hill
then thou wilt satiete me
Oh let me, swiftly fly
Unto that mountain, high.

This is our sowing time
we may not reap, as yet
Tis well if we, before we climb
a sheaf of glory gett
And may have leave to top
an ear, of the full crop.

September 25 72

Why sittst thou musing thus
my soull a-way
All cretures, ar not worth a rush
compared with one ray
Which from the sun of righteousnese
Doth dart, upon the comfortlese.

Arise, my soull, arise.
here's not thy rest
Tread under foot, earths vanitys
and hasten to thy nest
Of sweetnese, where, thou hapst to ly
Secure, to all eternity.

Why standst thou Idle here
Arise, be gone
The day in which thou must apear
draws nigh, therfore goe on

Concerning the precyousnese of time.

Oh time, oh time, that precyous thing
How doe we wast
thee. though with hast
Thou fly'st away, upon the wing
To eternity vast

Wee cannot call thee, back again
yet down we sitt
and intermitt
Our work, by Childish toys, most vain
which cannot benefitt

What ever tis wee ar about
time will not stay
But posts away
And our short sandglase, runeth out
whether we work, or play

Our day is short, our work is great
what need have we
active to bee

Satens malice, and the saincts victory

The livly Christian, doth alarm hell
And bring the devill, mad out of his cell
Hee's forct to come, out of his den to see
What is the news, be cannot quiet bee
Let him but see, a Christian march apace
And he'l opose him, to his very face
And call about him, all the pow'rs of hell
To see if he, the pow'r of grace can quell
But god will hear us, when we cry, and quell
And has laid help on one, mighty to save
A legion of these devils, cant withstand
His word, when he from us doth them comand

The blessednese of a true Christian sep 26

Oh what a blessed thing it tis to be
A Cristian in truth, and sincerity
That can look death, & danger, in the face
And trample, on the sorrows, of his race
A cristian cares not for the things of time
But can to heaven, in affection climb
If creture comforts doe upon him flow
His hart upon them, he will not bestow
If here hee have not where to lay his head
By faith, hee veiws his mansion prepared
Though cloth'd with rags, & on the dunghill laid

Another to the same purpose

The prience of this world is cast out
Though for a while, he makes a rout
with victory
triumphantly
Christ shall make thee, upon his head
With acclamations, for to tread

This ravaning, devouring, kite
To heaven, cannot take his flight
for to destroy
or thee anoy
Time, and this world's his boundery
He cannot soare above the sky

Wee cant be quiet here below
But he will always att us throw
his fiery darts
to wound our harts
In company, & when alone

The soull by faith, triumphing over saten, & rejoycing in hopes of future freedome. through Christ alone.

Oh what a reall comfort tis
To think, though Saten, doth here tempt
and seek to foyle
tis but a while
And I shall be, for e're exempt
From all thosse subtletys, of his

In duty here, he will not rest
But att mine elbow, he doth stand
my soull to vex
and it perplex
But when climb'd to the holy land
Hee shall me then, no more molest

He doth whilst here, still evermore
Throw in his fire brands ore the wall

The soull clouded. sep 12 72

Why turnest thou thy face away
On the inshutting of the day

Whilst all things doe in darknese shourd
Thou wrapst thy self, up in a cloud

Thou knowst I cannot be content
Whilst I'me out of thy presence pent

Except upon my soull thou shine
I must have leave, to moane, & pine

Oh shew thy self, to me with speed
Or take mee up that I may feed

My eyes, to satisfaction,
Upon thy well beloved son

When it is with me att the best
I cannot here take, up my rest

enlarged desires after the full enjoyment of god in glory,

My god, my rock. and my fortrese
my sweet salvation
The centor of my hapynese
to thee, I make my moane

Oh pity me, & fecth me hence
for here I live in pain
Whilst in this state, of sad absence
I am forct to remain

What can my lose campensurate
Whilst I'me absent from thee
And cant into imediate
embraces taken be

Ten thousand worlds, away I'de throw
if they were all my own
Provided, I might only know
I should be quikly gone

Meditations on the glory of that day, when all the saints, that ever were are, or shall be shall meet togather sep 10

Oh for that glorious day, we look to see
When all the saincts shall congregated bee
That either shall be, ar, or ever where
To be fixt up, in glorys highest sphere
When earth, and sea, shall both give up their dead
Which in their bowells, have been buried
And shall att once to heaven take their flight
Arayed in their robs, of glory, bright
Soe many saincts, so many shining suns