CCIX. Providing Bags, that wax not old, &c.

THESE mortal Joys, how soon they fade!
How swift they pass away!
The dying Flow'r reclines its Head,
The Beauty of a Day!

The Bags are rent, the Treasures lost,
We fondly call'd our own:
Scarce could we the Possession boast,
And strait we found it gone.

But there are Joys that cannot die,
With GOD laid up in Store;
Treasure beyond the changing Sky,
Brighter than golden Ore.

To that my rising Heart aspires,
Secure to find its Rest,
And glories in such wide Desires
Of all their Wish possess'd.

The Seeds, which Piety and Love
Have scatter'd here below,
In the fair fertile Fields above
To ample Harvests grow.

The Mite my willing Hands can give
At Jesus' Feet I lay;
Grace shall the humble Gift receive,
And Heav'n at large repay.