Classic Poem

Great is thy worke in Wildernesse, Oh man,
Young Eliot neere twenty yeares thou hast ,
In Westerne world with miccle toile thy span
Spent well-neere out, and now thy gray hayrs gracest,
Are by thy Land-Lord Christ, who makes use of thee
To feede his flock, and heathen people teach
In their own Language, God and Christ to see;
A Saviour their blind hearts could not reach,
Poore naked Children come to learne Gods Mind
Before thy face with reverend regard;
Blesse God for thee may these poore heathen blind,
That from thy mouth Christs Gospell sweete have heard.
Eliot, thy name is, through the wild woods spread ,
In Indians mouths frequent's thy fame, for why?
In sundry shapes the Devills made them dread;
And now the Lord makes them their Wigwams fly .
Rejoyce in this, nay rather joy that thou,
Amongst Christs Souldiers hast thy name sure set,
Although small gaine on Earth accrew to you,
Yet Christ to Crowne will thee to Heaven soone fet.