Fire and Ice: Puritan and Reformed Writings
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I Go to Prepare a Place for You.

Meditation 95 by Edward Taylor
John 14.2.

What shall a Mote up to a Monarch rise?
     An Emmet match an Emperor in might?
If Princes make their personall Exercise
     Betriming mouse holes, painting with delight!
     Or hanging Hornets nests with rich attire
     All that pretende to Wisdome would admire.

The Highest Office and Highst Officer
     Expende on lowest intrest in the world
The greatest Cost and wealthiest treasure far
     Twould shew mans wisdom's up in folly furld.
     That Humane Wisdom's hatcht within the nest
     Of addle brains which wisdom ne'er possesst.

But blush, poor Soule, at th' thought of such a thought
     Touching my Lord, the King of Kings most bright
As acting thus, for us all over nought,
     Worse than poor Ants, or Spider catchers mite
     Who goes away t'prepare's a place most cleare
     Whose Shine o're shines the shining Sunshine here.

Ye Heavens wonder, shall your maker come
     To Crumbs of Clay, bing'd all and drencht in Sin
To stop the gap with Graces bought, defray
     The Cost the Law transgresst, doth on us bring?
     Thy head layst down under the axe on th'block
     That for our Sins did off the same there lop:

But that's not all: Thou now didst sweep Death's Cave
     Clean with thy hand: and leavest not a dust
Of Flesh, or Bone that there th'Elect dropt have,
     But bringst out all, new buildst the Fabrick just,
     (Having the Scrowle of Gods Displeasure clear'd)
     Bringst back the Soule putst in its tent new rear'd.

But thats not all: Now from Deaths realm, erect,
     Thou gloriously gost to thy Fathers Hall:
And pleadst their Case preparst them place well dect
     All with thy Merits hung. Blesst Mansions all.
     Dost ope the Doore locks fast 'gainst Sins that so
     These Holy Rooms admit them may thereto.

But thats not all. Leaving these dolefull roomes
     Thou com'st and takst them by the hands, Most High,
Dost them translate out from their Death bed toombs,
     To th'rooms prepar'd filld with Eternall joy.
     Them Crownst and thronst there, there their lips be shall
     Pearld with Eternall Praises that's but all.

Lord Let me bee one of these Crumbs of thine.
     And though Im dust adorn me with thy graces
That though all flect with Sin, thy Grace may shine
     As thou Conductst me to these furnisht places.
     Make mee, thy Golden trumpet, sounded bee,
     By thy Good Spirits melody to thee.

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