The Song of Songs, Chapter II: The Paraphrase

Christ.
SUch is the Power of my sweet Love,
My Church it sweetneth;
It sweetens Earth and Heav'n above,
It sweetens Life and Death:
Such is the Beauty of my Face,
'Tis with such Glories crown'd,
That Solomon's Glory must give place,
To what shines me around;
As Lillies in the Valleys-grow,
So I the Valleys own:
The Humble are my Heav'n below,
The Lowly are my Throne.

No comely Persons can I see,
But whom my Grace adorns;
My Church a Lilly is to me,
And all the Rest are Thorns.

The Church.
None but a Jesus, none but He!
He is the Chiefest Good;
My Jesus is an Apple-Tree,
And others Barren Wood:
He is a Shadow from the Heat
Of Conscience, Wrath and Hell;
He is true Manna, Heav'nly Meat,
Which feeds his Israel:
The Shadow of his Sacraments
Hath been exceeding good;
Under that Shade a Feast I made
Upon his Flesh and Blood.

My Christ is like a Cellar Stor'd
With sweet and precious Wine;
What Sweetness found I in my Lord,
When he said, I am thine!
As Souldiers to their Colours stand,
And after them do move;
So doth my dearest Lord command,
And draw me by his Love.

Nothing but Glory can suffice
The Appetite of Grace;
I long for Christ with Restless Eyes,
I languish for his Face.
O take me up, or let me Sup
On Promises Divine;
Those Apples from the Tree of Life,
Those Flagons full of Wine.

How am I Born, whilst sick of Love,
In those blest Hands of his?
His Left my Souls Support doth prove,
His Right my Comfort is.

And whilst his Love doth me enflame,
Hear what a Charge I give,
All ye that own his Sacred Name,
Do not his Spirit grieve:
He is all Love, he is my Love,
O do not him abuse!
Do not again put him to pain,
Dear Christians, turn not Jews:
Lord, leave us not; yet if thou wilt,
With Tears we'll own thy Right;
But a Departure forc'd by Guilt,
Makes a Tempestuous Night.

My dearest Saviours Voice I hear,
He comes on my account;
Nothing can stop his full Career,
No, not Corruptions Mount.

My Lord makes hast from Heav'n to Earth,
And he himself presents,
To Men of a polluted Birth,
By Word and Sacraments:
Tho', like a Wall, our frail Estate
Prevents a perfect Sight,
Yet thro' his Ordinances Grate,
Dart in some Beams of Light.

My Lord to me did thus begin,
Arise, my Love, and flee
From World, Flesh, Satan, Self and Sin,
O come away to me!

Time was when thou wast cold and dead,
An Heir of Wrath thou wast,
And Vengeance-Storms hung o're thy Head,
But those sad Days are past.

The Flowers of Grace begin to spring
In Thee so hopefully;
That all the Heav'nly Quire doth sing
Glory to God on High.

My Church, thou art my tender Plant,
My Dews have nourish'd Thee;
Now thou art […] mine, now thou must grant,
Thy Fruit, thy Self to Me.

My heartless Dove, why dost thou faint,
And hide thy self from me?
Thou know'st not how I love a Saint,
How welcome thou should'st be:
Come, come, before thy Lord appear,
Thy Person joys my Sight;
Let me thy Prayers and Praises hear,
Thy Voice is my Delight.

Ye Men of God, whose Charge it is,
In God's Courts to attend;
Restrain those Enemies of his,
Which do his Church offend.

Mine through my Faith is my dear Lord,
His through his Love am I;
He feeds his People with his Word,
Which tasts most pleasantly.

He feeds them with his Word of Grace,
Till Glories Day appears;
Which all the Shades away shall chase,
Of Sins, and Griefs, and Fears:
Come Love, come Lord, come that long day,
My earnest Expectation;
Shovel these Days out of the way,
These Hills of Separation.