Edward Taylor - Meditation 18 lyrics

Astonisht stand, my Soule; why dost not start At this surprizing Sight shewn here below? Oh! let the twitch made by my bouncing Heart Gust from my breast this Enterjection, Oh! A Sight so Horrid, sure its Mercies Wonder Rocks rend not at't, nor Heavens split asunder. Souls Charg'd with Sin, Discharge at God, beside Firld up in Guilt, Wrapt in Sins Slough, and Slime. Wills wed to Wickedness, Hearts Stonifide Flinty Affections, Conscience Chalybdine Flooding the World with Horrid Crimes, arise Daring Almighty God Contemptuouswise. Hence Vengeance rose with her fierce Troops in Buff, Soul-piercing Plagues, Heart-Aching Griefs, and Groans, Woes Pickled in Revenges Powdering Trough: Pain fetching forth their Proofs out of the boanes. Doth all in Flames of Fire surround them so Which they can ne're o'recome, nor undergo. In this sad Plight the richest Beauty Cleare That th'bravest Flower, that bud was big with, wore, Did glorify those Cheeks, whose Vissage were Marr'd more than any mans, and Form spoild more. Oh! Beauty beautifull, not toucht with vice! The fairest Flower in all Gods Paradise! Stept in, and in its Glory 'Counters all. And in the Belly of this Dismall Cloud, Of Woes in Pickle is gulpht up, whose Gall He dranke up quite. Whose Claws his Face up plow'd. Yet in these Furrows sprang the brightest Shine That Glory's Sun could make, or Love Enshrine. Then Vengeance's Troops are routed, Pickled Woe Heart-aching Griefes, Pains plowing to the boanes, Soul piercing Plagues, all Venom do foregoe. The Curse now Cures, though th'Griefe procureth groans. As th'Angry Bee doth often lose her Sting, The Law was Cursless made in Cursing him. And now his shining Love beams out its rayes My Soul, upon thy Heart to thaw the same: To animate th'Affections till they blaze; To free from Guilt, and from Sins Slough, and Shame. Open thy Casement wide, let Glory in, To Guild thy Heart to be an Hall for him. My Breast, be thou the ringing Virginalls: Ye mine Affections, their sweet Golden Strings, My Panting Heart, be thou for Stops, and Falls: Lord, let thy quick'ning Beams dance o're the Pins. Then let thy Spirit this sweet note resume, ALTASCHATH MICHTAM, in Seraphick Tune.