1 I'm tir'd with visits, modes and forms,
And flatteries paid to fellow worms
Their convesation cloys:
Their vain amouurs, and empty stuff:
But I can ne'er enjoy enough
Of thy blest company my LORD, thou
life of all my joys.
2 When he begins to tell his love,
Through evey vein my passions move,
The captives of his tongue;
In midnight shades, on frosty ground,
I cold attend the pleasing sound,
Nor should I feel December ocld, nor
think the darkness lonb.
3 There while I hear my Saviour GOD
Count o'er the sins (a heavy load)
He bore upon the tree,
Inward I blush with secret shame,
And weep, and love, and bless the name
That knew not guilt nor grief his own,
but bare it all for me.
4 Next he describes the thorns he wore,
And talks his bloody passion o'er,
Till I am drown'd in tears:
Yet with the sympathetic smart
There's a strange joy beats round my heart
The cursed tree has blessings in't, my
sweetest balm it bears.
5 I hear the glorious sufferer tell,
How on his cross he vanquish'd hell,
And all the pow'rs beneath:
Transported and inspir'd, my tongue
Attempts his triumphs in a song:
How has the serpent lost his sting, and
where's thy victory, death?
6 But when he shews his hands and heart
With those dear prints of dying smart
He sets my soul on fire:
Nor the beloved John could rest
With more delight upon that brest,
Nor Thomas pry into those wounds with
more intense desire.
7 Kindly he opens me his ear,
And bids me pour my sorrows there,
And tell him all my pains:
Thus while I ease my burden'd heart,
In ev'ry woe he bears a part,
His armes embrace me, and his hand my
drooping head sustains.
8 Fly from my thoughts, all human things
And sporting swains, and fighting kings,
And tales of wanto love:
My soul disdains that little snare
The tangles of Amira's harp
Thine arms, my God, are sweeter bands,
nor can my heart remove.