The Church comp. to a Bush

THy Church, Lord, in her self is poor,
Like to a Bramble dry;
'Tis, Lord, in thee, in thee alone
Doth all her glory lye.

But though a Bush, yet in it thou
Dost dwell for evermore,
And therefore she is not consum'd
Ev'n now as heretofore.

This Bush long time on fire has been,
O 'tis a wond'rous sight,
Though in the fire, yet not burn'd,
This may our Souls invite

To take a view, as Moses did,
O why is this thing so?
Alas, thy Church is dear to thee,
Beyond all things below!

O then let all those precious Birds
Who in this Bush are hid,
Sing forth thy praise continually,
And none their Souls forbid.

The time of singing, O 'tis come,
Since the sweet Turtle-Dove
Did let us hear, in this our Land,
His voice from Heav'n above.