Classic Poem

Come Lord, my head doth burn, my heart is sick,
While thou dost ever, ever stay:
Thy long deferrings wound me to the quick,
My spirit gaspeth night and day.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

How canst thou stay, considering the pace
The blood did make, which thou didst waste?
When I behold it trickling down thy face,
I never saw thing make such haste.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

When man was lost, thy pity looked about
To see what help in th' earth or sky:
But there was none; at least no help without;
The help did in thy bosom lie.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

There lay thy son: and must he leave that nest,
That hive of sweetness, to remove
Thraldom from those, who would not at a feast
Leave one poor apple for thy love?
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

He did, he came: O my Redeemer dear,
After all this canst thou be strange?
So many years baptised, and not appear?
As if thy love could fail or change.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

Yet if thou stayest still, why must I stay?
My God, what is this world to me?
This world of woe? hence all ye clouds, away,
Away; I must get up and see.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

What is this weary world; this meat and drink,
That chains us by the teeth so fast?
What is this woman-kind, which I can wink
Into a blackness and distaste?
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

With one small sigh thou gav'st me th' other day
I blasted all the joys about me:
And scowling on them as they pined away,
Now come again, said I, and flout me.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake,
Which way soe'er I look, I see.
Some may dream merrily, but when they wake,
They dress themselves and come to thee.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

We talk of harvests; there are no such things,
But when we leave our corn and hay:
There is no fruitful year, but that which brings
The last and loved, though dreadful day.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

O loose this frame, this knot of man untie!
That my free soul may use her wing,
Which now is pinioned with mortality,
As an entangled, hampered thing.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

What have I left, that I should stay and groan?
The most of me to heav'n is fled:
My thoughts and joys are all packed up and gone,
And for their old acquaintance plead.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

Come dearest Lord, pass not this holy season,
My flesh and bones and joints do pray:
And ev'n my verse, when by the rhyme and reason
The word is, Stay , says ever, Come .
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!