Lord, why should I contented be,
whilst I am thus absent from thee?
Can there be day without the sun,
or bodies live when souls are gone?
Thou art my Sun, my Soul, and I
absent from that do daily die.
What do I here, when all's above,
that is deserving of my love?
My God, my Christ, my friends are there,
my heart, my hopes, what do I here?
O let my heaven-born soul expire
itself in sallies, and desire.
Only to rest, and make its stay,
where thou art all in all for ay.
O come thou down with speed to me,
or take me quickly up to thee.
Friday, July 17, 2009
The following is extracted from a poem, "On the Much Lamented Death of My Sincerely Honoured and Beloved Friend Mr. Thomas Wilson," in Life and Death of Mr. Wilson, p. 96, by George Swinnock, quoted in J. Stephen Yuille, ed., Trading, and Thriving in Godliness: The Piety of George Swinnock, p. 214: