Edward Taylor(1642 - 29 June 1729 / Sketchley / Leicestershire / England)
- by Edward Taylor91
Infinity, when all things it beheld In Nothing, and of Nothing all did build, Upon what Base was fixt the Lath wherein He turn'd this Globe, and riggalld it so trim? Who blew the Bellows of His Furnace Vast? Or held the Mould wherein the world was Cast? Who laid its Corner Stone? Or whose Command? Where stand the Pillars upon which it stands? Who Lac'de and Fillitted the earth so fine, With Rivers like green Ribbons Smaragdine? Who made the Sea's its Selvedge, and it locks Like a Quilt Ball within a Silver Box? Who Spread its Canopy? Or Curtains Spun? Who in this Bowling Alley bowld the Sun? Who made it always when it rises set: To go at once both down, and up to get? Who th' Curtain rods made for this Tapistry? Who hung the twinckling Lanthorns in the Sky? Who? who did this? or who is he? Why, know It's Onely Might Almighty this did doe. His hand hath made this noble worke which Stands His Glorious Handywork not made by hands. Who spake all things from nothing; and with ease Can speake all things to nothing, if he please. Whose Little finger at his pleasure Can Out mete ten thousand worlds with halfe a Span: Whose Might Almighty can by half a looks Root up the rocks and rock the hills by th' roots. Can take this mighty World up in his hande, And shake it like a Squitchen or a Wand. Whose single Frown will make the Heavens shake Like as an aspen leafe the Winde makes quake. Oh! what a might is this Whose single frown Doth shake the world as it would shake it down? Which All from Nothing fet, from Nothing, All: Hath All on Nothing set, lets Nothing fall. Gave All to nothing Man indeed, whereby Through nothing man all might him Glorify. In Nothing then embosst the brightest Gem More pretious than all pretiousness in them. But Nothing man did throw down all by Sin: And darkened that lightsom Gem in him. That now his Brightest Diamond is grown Darker by far than any Coalpit Stone.
Ebb and Flow
- by Edward Taylor63
When first Thou on me, Lord, wroughtest Thy sweet print, My heart was made Thy tinder-box, My 'ffections were Thy tinder in't, Where fell Thy sparks by drops. Those holy sparks of heavenly fire that came Did ever catch and often out would flame.
But now my heart is made Thy censer trim, Full of Thy golden altar's fire, To offer up sweet incense in Unto Thyself entire: I find my tinder scarce Thy sparks can feel That drop from out Thy holy flint and steel.
Hence doubts out bud for fear Thy fire in me 'S a mocking ignis fatuus, Or lest Thine altar's fire out be, It's hid in ashes thus. Yet when the bellows of Thy spirit blow Away mine ashes, then Thy fire doth glow.
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