(Romans 5:14. Who is the Figure of Him that was to Come)
Like to the marigold, I blushing close
My golden blossoms when Thy sun goes down:
Moist'ning my leaves with dewy sighs, half froze
By the nocturnal cold, that hoars my crown.
Mine apples ashes are in apple-shells
And dirty too: strange and bewitching spells!
When, Lord, mine eye doth spy Thy grace to beam
Thy mediatorial glory in the shine
Out-spouted so from Adam's typic stream
And emblemized in Noah's polished shrine,
Thine theirs outshines so far it makes their glory
In brighter colors, seem a smoky story.
But when mine eye, full of these beams, doth cast
Its rays upon my dusty essence thin,
Impregnate with a spark divine, defaced,
All candied o'er with leprosy of sin,
Such influences on my spirit light,
Which them as bitter gall or cold ice smite.
My bristled sins hence do so horrid 'pear,
None but Thyself (and Thou decked up must be
In Thy transcendent glory sparkling clear)
A mediator unto God for me.
So high they rise, Faith scarce can toss a sight
Over their head upon Thyself to light.
Is't possible such glory, Lord, e'er should
Center its love on me, sin's dunghill else?
My case up take? Make it its own? Who would
Wash with His blood my blots out? Crown His shelf
Or dress His golden cupboard with such ware?
This makes my pale-faced hope almost despair.
Yet let my titimouse's quill suck in
Thy grace's milk-pails some small drop: or cart
A bit, or splinter of some ray, the wing
Of grace's sun sprindged out, into my heart:
To build there wonder's chapel where Thy praise
Shall be the psalms sung forth in gracious lays.
