Edward Taylor - Meditation 34 lyrics

My Lord I fain would Praise thee Well but finde Impossibilities blocke up my pa**. My tongue Wants Words to tell my thoughts, my Minde Wants thoughts to Comprehend thy Worth, alas! Thy Glory far Surmounts my thoughts, my thoughts Surmount my Words: Hence little Praise is brought. But seing Non-Sense very Pleasant is To Parents, flowing from the Lisping Child, I Conjue to thee, hoping thou in this Will finde some hearty Praise of mine Enfoild, But though my pen drop'd golden Words, yet would Thy Glory far out shine my Praise in Gold. Poor wretched man d**hs Captive stood full chuffe But thou my Gracious Lord didst finde reliefe, Thou King of Glory didst, to handy cuff With King of Terrours, and dasht out his Teeth, Pluckst out his sting, his Poyson quelst, his head To pieces brakest. Hence Cruell d**h lies Dead. And still thou by thy gracious Chymistry Dost of his Carka** Cordialls make rich, High, To free from d**h makst d**h a remedy: A Curb to Sin, a Spur to Piety. Heavens brightsom Light shines out in d**h's Dark Cave. The Golden Dore of Glory is the Grave. The Painter lies who pensills d**h's Face grim With White bare bu*ter Teeth,, bare staring bones, With Empty Eyeholes, Ghostly Lookes which fling Such Dread to see as raiseth Deadly groans, For thou hast farrely Washt d**hs grim grim face And made his Chilly finger-Ends drop grace. d**h Tamde, Subdude, Washt fair by thee! Oh Grace! Made Usefull thus! thou unto thine dost say Now d**h is yours, and all it doth in't brace. The Grave's a Down bed now made for your clay. Oh! Happiness! How should our bells hereby Ring Changes, Lord, and praises trust with joy. Say I am thine, My Lord: Make me thy bell To ring thy praise. Then d**h is mine indeed A Hift to Grace, a Spur to Duty; Spell To Fear; a Frost to nip each naughty Weede. A Golden doore to Glory. Oh I'le sing This Triumph o're the Grave! d**h where's thy Sting?