My God, I read this day,
That planted Paradise was not so firm,
As was and is thy floating Ark; whose stay
And anchor thou art only, to confirm
And strengthen it in ev'ry age,
When waves do rise, and tempests rage.
At first we lived in pleasure;
Thine own delights thou didst to us impart:
When we grew wanton, thou didst use displeasure
To make us thine: yet that we might not part,
As we at first did board with thee,
Now thou wouldst taste our misery.
There is but joy and grief;
If either will convert us, we are thine:
Some Angels used the first; if our relief
Take up the second, then thy double line
And sev'ral baits in either kind
Furnish thy table to thy mind.
Affliction then is ours;
We are the trees, whom shaking fastens more,
While blust'ring winds destroy the wanton bow'rs,
And ruffle all their curious knots and store.
My God, so temper joy and woe,
That thy bright beams may tame thy bow.
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