“Christ’s reply” – Edward Taylor

I loved this poem so much and I couldn’t find the full text online, so I decided to type it out :D

“Christ’s reply” – Edward Taylor


Peace, Peace, My Honey, do not Cry,

My Little Darling, wipe thine eye,

Oh Cheer, Cheer up, come see.

Is there anything too dear, my Dove,

Is there anything too good, my Love,

To get or give to thee?


If in the several thou art,

This Yelper fierce will at thee bark:

That thou art Mine this shows.

As Spot barks back the sheep again

Before they to the Pound are ta’en,

So he and hence ‘way goes.


But yet this Cur that bays so sore

Is broken-toothed, and muzzled sure,

Fear not, my Pretty Heart.

His barking is to make thee Cling

Close underneath thy Savior’s Wing.

Why did my sweeten start?


And if he run an inch too far,

I’ll Check his Chain, and rate the Cur.

My Chick, keep close to me.

The Poles shall sooner kiss, and greet

And Parallels shall sooner meet

Than thou shalt be harmed be.


He seeks to aggravate thy sin

And screw them to the highest pin,

To make thy faith to quail.

Yet mountain Sins like mites should show

And then these mites for naught should go

Could he but once prevail.


I smote thy sins upon the Head.

They Deadened are, though not quite dead:

And shall not rise again.

I’ll put away the Guilt thereof,

And purge its Filthiness clear off

My Blood doth out the stain.


And though thy judgment was remiss

Thy Headstrong Will too willful is.

I will Renew the same.

And though thou do too frequently

Offend as heretofore hereby,

I’ll not severely blame.


And though thy senses do inveigle

Thy Noble Soul to tend the Beagle,

That t’hunt her games forth go,

I’ll lure her back to me, and Change

Those fond Affections that do range

As yelping beagles do.


Although thy sins increase their race,

And though when thou hast sought for Grace,

Thou fallst more than before,

If thou by true Repentance Rise,

And Faith makes Me Thy Sacrifice,

I’ll pardon all, though more.


Though Satan strive to block thy way

By all his Stratagems he may:

Come, come though through the fire.

For Hell that Gulf of fire for sins,

Is not so hot as t’burn thy Shins.

Then Credit not the Liar.


Those Cursed Vermin Sins that Crawl

All o’er thy Soul, both Great and small,

Are only Satan’s own:

Which he in his Malignity

Unto thy Soul’s true Sanctity

In at the doors hath thrown.


And though they be Rebellion high,

Ath’ism or Apostasy;

Though blasphemy it be:

Unto what Quality, or Size

Excepting one, so e’er it rise.

Repent, I’ll pardon thee.


Although thy Soul was once a Stall

Rich hung with Satan’s knick-knacks all;

If thou Repent thy sin,

A Tabernacle in’t I’ll place

Filled with God’s Spirit, and His Grace.

Oh. Comfortable thing!


I dare the World therefore to show

A God like Me, to anger slow:

Whose wrath is full of Grace.

Doth hate all Sins both Great and small:

Yet when Repented, pardons all.

Frowns with a Smiling Face.


As for thy outward Postures each,

Thy Gestures, Actions, and thy Speech,

I Eye and Eying spare,

If thou repent. My Grace is more

Ten thousand times still trebled o’er

Than thou canst want, or wear.


As for the Wicked Charge he makes,

That he of Every Dish first takes

Of all thy holy things,

It’s false, deny the same, and say,

That which he had he stole away

Out of thy Offerings.


Though to thy Grief, poor Heart, thou find

In Prayer too oft a wandering mind,

In Sermons Spirits dull,

Though faith in fiery furnace flags,

And Zeal in Chilly Seasons lags,

Tempation’s powerful.


These faults are his, and none of thine

So far as thou dost them decline.

Come, then receive My Grace.

And when he buffets thee therefore,

If thou My aid and Grace implore,

I’ll show a pleasant face.


But still look for Temptations Deep,

Whilst that thy Noble Spark doth keep

Within a Mudwalled Cote.

These White Frosts and the Showers that fall

Are but to whiten thee withal,

Not rot thy Web they smote.


If in the fire where Gold is tried

Thy Soul is put, and purified,

Wilt thou lament thy loss?

If silver-like this fire refine

Thy Soul and make it brighter shine:

Wilt thou bewail the Dross?


Oh! fight My Field: no Colors fear:

I’ll be thy Front, I’ll be thy rear.

Fail not: My Battles fight.

Defy the Tempter, And his Mock.

Anchor thy heart on Me thy Rock.

I do in thee Delight.



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