O Dearest Dread, most glorious King, I'le of thy justest Judgements sing: So thou my head and heart inspire, To Sing aright, as I desire. Thee, thee alone I'le invocate, For I do much abominate To call the Muses to mine aid: Which is th' Unchristian use, and trade Of some that Christians would be thought, And yet they worship worse then nought. Oh! what a deal of Blasphemy, And Heathenish Impiety, In Christian Poets may be found, Where Heathen gods with praise are Crown'd, They make Jehovah to stand by, Till Juno, Venus, Mercury, With frowning Mars, and thundering Jove Rule Earth below, and Heaven above. But I have learnt to pray to none, Save unto God in Christ alone. Nor will I laud, no, not in jest, That which I know God doth detest. I reckon it a damning evil To give Gods Praises to the Devil. Thou, Christ, art he to whom I pray, Thy Glory fain I would display. Oh! guide me by thy sacred Sprite So to indite, and so to write, That I thine holy Name may praise, And teach the Sons of men thy wayes.
To The Christian Reader
- by Michael Wigglesworth18
Reader, I am a fool; And have adventured To play the fool this once for Christ, The more his fame to spread. If this my foolishness Help thee to be more wise, I have attained what I seek, And what I onely prize.
Thou wonderest perhaps, That I in Print appear, Who to the Pulpit dwell so nigh, Yet come so seldome there. The God of Heaven knows What grief to me it is, To be with-held from Serving Christ: No sorrow like to this.
This is the sorest pain That I have felt of feel: Yet have I stood some shocks that might Make stronger Men to reel. I find more true delight In serving of my Lord, Tan all the good things upon Earth, Without it, can afford.
And could my strength endure, That work I count so dear; Not all the Riches of Peru Should hire me to forbear; But I'm a Prisoner, Under a heavy Chain: Almighty God's afflicting hand, Doth me perforce restrain.
Yet some (I know) do judge, Mine inability, To come abroad and do Christ's Work, To be Melancholy; And that I'm not so weak, As I my self conceit, But who, in other things have found Me so conceited yet?
Or who of all my friends, That have my tryals seen, Can tell the time in seven years, When I have dumpish been? Some think my voice is strong, Most times when I do Preach: But ten days after what I feel And suffer, few can reach.
My prisoned thoughts break forth, When open'd is the door, With greater force and violence, And strain my voice the more. But vainly do they tell, That I am growing stronger, Who hear me speak in half an hour, Till I can speak no longer.
Some for, because they see not My chearfulness to fail, Nor that I am disconsolate, Do think I nothing ail. If they had born my griefs, Their courage might have fail'd them, And all the Town (perhaps) have known (Once and again) what ail'd them.
But why should I complain That have so good a God, That doth mine heart with comfort fill, Ev'n whilst I feel his Rod? In God I have been strong, When wearied and worn out; And joy'd in him, when twenty woes Assail'd me round about.
Nor speak I this to boast; But make Apology For mine own self, and answer those That fail in Charity. I am (alas) as frail, Impatient a Creature, As most that tread upon the ground, And have as bad a nature.
Let God be magnify'd, Whose everlasting strength Upholds me under sufferings Of more than ten years length. Through whose Almighty pow'r Although I am surrounded With sorrows more than can be told, Yet am I not confounded.
For his dear sake have I This service undertaken, For I am bound to honour Him, Who hath not me forsaken. I am a Debtor too, Unto the sons of Men; Whom wanting other means, I would Advantage with my Pen.
I would, But (ah!) my strength, When tried, proves so small, That to the ground without effect, My wishes often fall. Weak heads, and hands, and states, Great things cannot produce: And therefore I this little Piece Have publish'd for thine use.
Although the thing be small, Yet my good will therein, Is nothing less then if it had A larger Volumn been. Accept it then in Love, And read it for thy good: There's nothing in't can do thee hurt, If rightly understood.
The God of Heaven grant These Lines so well to speed, That thou the things of thine own peace, Through them may'st better heed, And may'st be stirred up To stand upon thy guard, That Death and Judgment may not come, And find thee unprepar'd.
Oh get a part in Christ, And make the Judge thy Friend: So shalt thou be assured of A happy, glorious end. Thus prayes thy real Friend, And Servant for Christ's Sake, Who had he strength would not refuse, More pains for thee to take.
Poems by Michael Wigglesworth, Michael Wigglesworth's poems collection. Michael Wigglesworth is a classical and famous poet (1631 - 1705 / England). Share all poems of Michael Wigglesworth.