Edward Taylor's Poetry Poem Text

Edward Taylor's Poetry Poem Text

Meditation 1

What Love is this of thine, that Cannot bee
In thine Infinity, O Lord, Confinde,
Unless it in thy very Person see,
Infinity, and Finity Conjoyn'd?
What hath thy Godhead, as not satisfide
Marri'de our Manhood, making it its Bride?

Oh, Matchless Love! filling Heaven to the brim!
O're running it: all running o're beside
This World! Nay Overflowing Hell; wherein
For thine Elect, there rose a mighty Tide!
That there our Veans might through thy Person bleed,
To quench those flames, that else would on us feed.

Oh! that thy Love might overflow my Heart!
To fire the same with Love: for Love I would.
But oh! my streight'ned Breast! my Lifeless Sparke!
My Fireless Flame! What Chilly Love, and Cold?
In measure small! In Manner Chilly! See.
Lord blow the Coal: Thy Love Enflame in mee.

I am the Living Bread

I kening through Astronomy Divine
The Worlds bright Battlement, wherein I spy
A Golden Path my Pensill cannot line,
From that bright Throne unto my Threshold ly.
And while my puzzled thoughts about it pore
I finde the Bread of Life in't at my doore.

When that this Bird of Paradise put in
This Wicker Cage (my Corps) to tweedle praise
Had peckt the Fruite forbad: and so did fling
Away its Food; and lost its golden dayes;
It fell into Celestiall Famine sore:
And never could attain a morsell more.

Alas! alas! Poore Bird, what wilt thou doe?
The Creatures field no food for Souls e're gave.
And if thou knock at Angells cores they show
An Empty Barrell: they no soul bread have.
Alas! Poore Bird, the Worlds White Loafe is done.
And cannot yield thee here the smallest Crumb.

In this sad state, Gods Tender Bowells run
Out streams of Grace: And he to end all strife
The Purest Wheate in Heaven, his deare-dear Son
Grinds, and kneads up into this Bread of Life.
Which Bread of Life from Heaven down came and stands
Disht on thy Table up by Angells Hands.

Did God mould up this Bread in Heaven, and bake,
Which from his Table came, and to shine goeth?
Doth he bespeake thee thus, This Soule Bread take.
Come Eate thy fill of this thy Gods White Loafe?
Its Food too fine for Angells, yet come, take
And Eate thy fill. Its Heavens Sugar Cake.

What Grace is this knead in this Loafe? This thing
Souls are but petty things it to admire.
Yee Angells, help: This fill would to the brim
Heav'n s whelm'd-down Chrystall meele Bowle, yea and higher.
This Bread of Life drops in thy mouth, doth Cry.
Eate, Eate me, Soul, and thou shalt never dy.

I Go to Prepare a Place For You

What shall a Mote up to a Monarch rise?
An Emmet match an Emperor in might?
If Princes make their personall Exercise
Betriming mouse holes, painting with delight!
Or hanging Hornets nests with rich attire
All that pretende to Wisdome would admire.

The Highest Office and Highst Officer
Expende on lowest intrest in the world
The greatest Cost and wealthiest treasure far
Twould shew mans wisdom's up in folly furld.
That Humane Wisdom's hatcht within the nest
Of addle brains which wisdom ne'er possesst.

But blush, poor Soule, at th' thought of such a thought
Touching my Lord, the King of Kings most bright
As acting thus, for us all over nought,
Worse than poor Ants, or Spider catchers mite
Who goes away t'prepare's a place most cleare
Whose Shine o're shines the shining Sunshine here.

Ye Heavens wonder, shall your maker come
To Crumbs of Clay, bing'd all and drencht in Sin
To stop the gap with Graces bought, defray
The Cost the Law transgresst, doth on us bring?
Thy head layst down under the axe on th'block
That for our Sins did off the same there lop:

But that's not all: Thou now didst sweep Death's Cave
Clean with thy hand: and leavest not a dust
Of Flesh, or Bone that there th'Elect dropt have,
But bringst out all, new buildst the Fabrick just,
(Having the Scrowle of Gods Displeasure clear'd)
Bringst back the Soule putst in its tent new rear'd.

But thats not all: Now from Deaths realm, erect,
Thou gloriously gost to thy Fathers Hall:
And pleadst their Case preparst them place well dect
All with thy Merits hung. Blesst Mansions all.
Dost ope the Doore locks fast 'gainst Sins that so
These Holy Rooms admit them may thereto.

But thats not all. Leaving these dolefull roomes
Thou com'st and takst them by the hands, Most High,
Dost them translate out from their Death bed toombs,
To th'rooms prepar'd filld with Eternall joy.
Them Crownst and thronst there, there their lips be shall
Pearld with Eternall Praises that's but all.

Lord Let me bee one of these Crumbs of thine.
And though Im dust adorn me with thy graces
That though all flect with Sin, thy Grace may shine
As thou Conductst me to these furnisht places.
Make mee, thy Golden trumpet, sounded bee,
By thy Good Spirits melody to thee.

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