I am the Living Bread
Meditation
8 by Edward Taylor
John
6:51
I
kening through Astronomy Divine
The Worlds bright Battlement, wherein I spy
A Golden Path my Pensill cannot line,
From that bright Throne unto my Threshold ly.
And while my puzzled thoughts about it pore
I finde the Bread of Life in't at my doore.
When
that this Bird of Paradise put in
This Wicker Cage (my Corps) to tweedle praise
Had peckt the Fruite forbad: and so did fling
Away its Food; and lost its golden dayes;
It fell into Celestiall Famine sore:
And never could attain a morsell more.
Alas!
alas! Poore Bird, what wilt thou doe?
The Creatures field no food for Souls e're gave.
And if thou knock at Angells cores they show
An Empty Barrell: they no soul bread have.
Alas! Poore Bird, the Worlds White Loafe is done.
And cannot yield thee here the smallest Crumb.
In
this sad state, Gods Tender Bowells run
Out streams of Grace: And he to end all strife
The Purest Wheate in Heaven, his deare-dear Son
Grinds, and kneads up into this Bread of Life.
Which Bread of Life from Heaven down came and stands
Disht on thy Table up by Angells Hands.
Did
God mould up this Bread in Heaven, and bake,
Which from his Table came, and to shine goeth?
Doth he bespeake thee thus, This Soule Bread take.
Come Eate thy fill of this thy Gods White Loafe?
Its Food too fine for Angells, yet come, take
And Eate thy fill. Its Heavens Sugar Cake.
What
Grace is this knead in this Loafe? This thing
Souls are but petty things it to admire.
Yee Angells, help: This fill would to the brim
Heav'n s whelm'd-down Chrystall meele Bowle, yea and higher.
This Bread of Life drops in thy mouth, doth Cry.
Eate, Eate me, Soul, and thou shalt never dy.
And All Drunk the Same Spirituall Drinke
Meditation 60b by Edward Taylor
1 Cor 10:4.
Ye
Angells bright, pluck from your Wings a Quill.
Make me a pen thereof that best will write.
Lend me your fancy, and Angellick skill
To treate this Theme, more rich than Rubies bright.
My muddy Inke, and Cloudy fancy dark,
Will dull its glory, lacking highest Art.
An
Eye at Centre righter may describe
The Worlds Circumferentiall glory vast
As in its nutshell bed it snugs fast tide,
Than any angells pen can glory Cast
Upon this Drink Drawn from the Rock, tapt by
The Rod of God, in Horeb, typickly.
Sea
water straind through Mineralls, Rocks, and Sands
Well Clarifi'de by Sunbeams, Dulcifi'de,
Insipid, Sordid, Swill, Dishwater stands.
But here's a Rock of Aqua-Vitae tride.
When once God broacht it, out a River came
To bath and bibble in, for Israels train.
Some
Rocks have sweat. Some Pillars bled out tears.
But here's a River in a Rock up tun'd
Not of Sea Water nor of Swill. Its beere.
No Nectar like it. Yet it once Unbund
A River down out runs through ages all.
A Fountain opte, to wash off Sin and Fall.
Christ
is this Horebs Rock, the streames that slide
A River is of Aqua Vitae Deare
Yet costs us nothing, gushing from his side.
Celestiall Wine our Sinsunk souls to cheare.
This Rock and Water, Sacramentall Cup
Are made, Lords Supper Wine for us to sup.
This
Rock's the Grape that Zions Vineyard bore
Which Moses Rod did smiting pound, and press
Untill its blood, the brooke of Life, run ore.
All Glorious Grace, and Gracious Righteousness.
We in this brook must bath: and with faiths quill
Suck Grace, and Life out of this Rock our fill.
Lord,
oynt me with this Petro oyle. I'm sick.
Make mee drinke Water of the Rock. I'm dry.
Me in this fountain wash. My filth is thick.
I'm faint, give Aqua Vitae or I dy.
If in this stream thou cleanse and Chearish mee
My Heart thy Hallelujahs Pipe shall bee.
More
Poems by Edward Taylor
Poems
and links to bibliography and notes (WSU)
Edward
Taylor page from CSUStan
Back to:
Schedule