(Romans 5:14. Who is the Figure of Him that was to Come) <br /> <br />Like to the marigold, I blushing close <br />My golden blossoms when Thy sun goes down: <br />Moist'ning my leaves with dewy sighs, half froze <br />By the nocturnal cold, that hoars my crown. <br />Mine apples ashes are in apple-shells <br />And dirty too: strange and bewitching spells! <br /> <br />When, Lord, mine eye doth spy Thy grace to beam <br />Thy mediatorial glory in the shine <br />Out-spouted so from Adam's typic stream <br />And emblemized in Noah's polished shrine, <br />Thine theirs outshines so far it makes their glory <br />In brighter colors, seem a smoky story. <br /> <br />But when mine eye, full of these beams, doth cast <br />Its rays upon my dusty essence thin, <br />Impregnate with a spark divine, defaced, <br />All candied o'er with leprosy of sin, <br />Such influences on my spirit light, <br />Which them as bitter gall or cold ice smite. <br /> <br />My bristled sins hence do so horrid 'pear, <br />None but Thyself (and Thou decked up must be <br />In Thy transcendent glory sparkling clear) <br />A mediator unto God for me. <br />So high they rise, Faith scarce can toss a sight <br />Over their head upon Thyself to light. <br /> <br />Is't possible such glory, Lord, e'er should <br />Center its love on me, sin's dunghill else? <br />My case up take? Make it its own? Who would <br />Wash with His blood my blots out? Crown His shelf <br />Or dress His golden cupboard with such ware? <br />This makes my pale-faced hope almost despair. <br /> <br />Yet let my titimouse's quill suck in <br />Thy grace's milk-pails some small drop: or cart <br />A bit, or splinter of some ray, the wing <br />Of grace's sun sprindged out, into my heart: <br />To build there wonder's chapel where Thy praise <br />Shall be the psalms sung forth in gracious lays.<br /><br />Edward Taylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/preparatory-meditations-second-series-3/
