Classic Poem

Come , Hooker, come forth of thy native soile :
Christ, I will run, sayes Hooker, thou hast set
My feet at large, here spend thy last dayes toile;
Thy Rhetorick shall peoples affections whet.
Thy Golden Tongue, and Pen Christ caus'd to be
The blazing of his golden truths profound,
Thou sorry worme its Christ wrought this in thee;
What Christ hath wrought must needs be very sound.
Then looke one Hookers workes, they follow him
To Grave, this worthy resteth there a while:
Die shall he not that hath Christs warrier bin;
Much lesse Christs Truth, cleer'd by his peoples toile.
Thou Angell bright, by Christ for light now made,
Throughout the World as seasoning salt to be,
Although in dust thy body mouldering fade;
Thy Head's in Heaven, and hath a crown for thee.