Eafter-day.

Hou, whofe fad heart and weeping head lyes low,

Whofe Cloudy breft cold damps invade,

Who never feel'ft the Sun, nor smooth'st

thy brow,

But fitt'ft oppreffed in the fhade,

Awake! awake!

And in his Refurrection partake,

Who on this day, that thou might'st rise as he,
Rofe up, and cancell'd two deaths due to thee.

Awake! awake! and, like the Sun, disperse
All mists that would ufurp this day;

Where are thy Palmes, thy branches, and thy verse ?
Hofanna! heark! why doeft thou stay?

Arife! arife!

And with his healing bloud anoint thine Eyes,
Thy inward Eyes; his bloud will cure thy mind,
Whose spittle only could restore the blind.

Easter Hymn.

Eath, and darkness get you packing,
Nothing now to man is lacking;
All your triumphs now are ended,
And what Adam marr'd is mended;
Graves are beds now for the weary,
Death a nap, to wake more merry;

Youth now, full of pious duty,
Seeks in thee for perfect beauty;

The weak and aged tir'd with length

Of daies from thee look for new strength;
And Infants with thy pangs Contest
As pleasant, as if with the breft.

Then, unto Him, who thus hath thrown
Even to Contempt thy kingdome down,
And by His blood did us advance
Unto His own Inheritance,

To Him be glory, power, praise,

From this, unto the last of daies!

The Holy Communion.

Elcome fweet, facred feast! O welcome life!

But

Dead I was, and deep in trouble;
grace and bleffings came with thee fo
rife,

That they have quicken'd even drie stubble.
Thus foules their bodies animate,

And thus at first when things were rude,
Dark, void, and Crude,

They by thy Word their beauty had and date;

All were by thee,

And ftill muft be;

Nothing that is, or lives,

But hath his Quicknings, and reprieves,
As thy hand opes or shuts;

Healings, and Cuts,

Darkness, and day-light, life, and death

Are but meer leaves turn'd by thy breath.
Spirits without thee die,

And blackness fits

On the divineft wits,

As on the Sun Ecclipfes lie.

But that great darkness at thy death,
When the veyl broke with thy last breath,
Did make us fee

The way to thee;

And now by these fure, facred ties,

After thy blood

Our fov'rain good,
Had clear'd our eies,

And given us fight;

Thou doft unto thy self betroth
Our fouls and bodies both

In everlasting light.

Was't not enough that thou hadft payd the price,
And given us eies

When we had none, but thou must also take
Us by the hand,

And keep us ftill awake,

When we would fleep,

Or from thee creep,

Who without thee cannot ftand?

Was❜t not enough to lose thy breath
And blood by an accurfed death,
But thou must also leave

To us, that did bereave

Thee of them both, these feals, the means

That fhould both cleanse

And keep us fo,

Who wrought thy wo?

O rofe of Sharon! O the Lilly
Of the valley!

How art thou now, thy flock to keep,
Become both food, and Shepheard to thy sheep!

Pfalm 121.

P to those bright and gladsome hills,
Whence flowes my weal and mirth,
I look, and figh for Him, who fills
Unseen both heaven and earth.

He is alone my help and hope,
That I shall not be moved;

His watchful Eye is ever ope,
And guardeth His beloved;

The glorious God is my sole stay,
He is my Sun and shade;
The cold by night, the heat by day,
Neither fhall me invade.

He keeps me from the spite of foes;
Doth all their plots controul;
And is a shield, not reckoning those,
Unto my very foul.

Whether abroad, amidst the Crowd,
Or elfe within my door,

He is my Pillar and my Cloud,

Now and for evermore.

Affliction

Eace, peace; It is not fo. Thou doft mifcall

Thy Phyfick; Pills that change

Thy fick Acceffions into fetled health;

This is the great Elixir that turns gall
To wine and sweetness, Poverty to wealth,
And brings man home, when he doth range.
Did not he, who ordain'd the day,

Ordain night too?

And in the greater world difplay

What in the leffer He would do?

All flesh is Clay, thou know'ft; and but that God
Doth use his rod,

And by a fruitfull Change of frosts and showres
Cherish and bind thy pow'rs,

Thou wouldst to weeds and thiftles quite difperfe,
And be more wild than is thy verse.
Sickness is wholfome, Croffes are but curbs
To check the mule, unruly man;

They are heaven's husbandry, the famous fan,
Purging the floor which Chaff disturbs.
Were all the year one conftant Sun-shine, wee
Should have no flowres ;

All would be drought and leanness; not a tree
Would make us bowres.

Beauty confifts in colours; and that's best
Which is not fixt, but flies and flowes.
The settled Red is dull, and whites that reft
Something of fickness would difclofe.

Viciffitude plaies all the game;