TO THE CHRISTIAN READER.
Reader, I am a fool,
And have adventuréd
To play the fool this once for Christ,
The more his fame to spread.
If this my foolishness
Help thee to be more wise,
I have attainéd what I seek,
And what I only prize.
Thou wonderest, perhaps,
That I in Print appear,
Who to the Pulpit dwell so nigh,
Yet come so seldom there.
The God of Heaven knows
What grief to me it is,
To be withheld from serving Christ;
No sorrow like to this.
This is the sorest pain
That I have felt or feel;
Yet have I stood some shocks that might
Make stronger men to reel.
I find more true delight
In serving of the Lord,
Than all the good things upon Earth,
Without it, can afford.
And could my strength endure
That work I count so dear,
Not all the Riches of Peru
Should hire me to forbear.
But I'm a Prisoner,
Under a heavy Chain;
Almighty God's afflicting hand
Doth me by force restrain.
Yet some (I know) do judge
Mine inability
To come abroad and do Christ's work,
To be Melancholly;
And that I'm not so weak
As I myself conceit:
But who in other things have found
Me so conceited yet?
Or who of all my Friends
That have my trials seen,
Can tell the time in sevén years
When I have dumpish been?
Some think my voice is strong,
Most times when I do Preach;
But ten days after, what I feel
And suffer few can reach.
My prison'd thoughts break forth,
When open'd is the door,
With greater force and violence,
And strain my voice the more.
But vainly do they tell
That I am growing stronger,
Who hear me speak in half an hour,
Till I can speak no longer.
Some for because they see not
My cheerfulness to fail,
Nor that I am disconsolate,
Do think I nothing ail.
If they had borne my griefs,
Their courage might have fail'd them,
And all the Town (perhaps) have known
(Once and again) what ail'd them.
But why should I complain
That have so good a God,
That doth mine heart with comfort fill
Ev'n whilst I feel his Rod?
In God I have been strong,
But wearied and worn out,
And joy'd in him, when twenty woes
Assail'd me round about.
Nor speak I this to boast,
But make Apology
For mine own self, and answer those
That fail in Charity.
I am, alas! as frail,
Impatiént a creature,
As most that tread upon the ground,
And have as bad a nature.
Let God be magnified,
Whose everlasting strength
Upholds me under sufferings
Of more than ten years' length;
Through whose Almighty pow'r
Although I am surrounded
With sorrows more than can be told,
Yet am I not confounded.
For his dear sake have I
This service undertaken,
For I am bound to honor him
Who hath not me forsaken.
I am a Debtor too,
Unto the sons of Men,
Whom, wanting other means, I would
Advantage with my Pen.
I would, but ah! my strength,
When triéd, proves so small,
That to the ground without effect
My wishes often fall.
Weak heads, and hands, and states,
Great things cannot produce;
And therefore I this little Piece
Have publish'd for thine use.
Although the thing be small,
Yet my good will therein,
Is nothing less than if it had
A larger Volume been.
Accept it then in love,
And read it for thy good;
There's nothing in't can do thee hurt,
If rightly understood.
The God of Heaven grant
These Lines so well to speed,
That thou the things of thine own peace
Through them may'st better heed;
And may'st be stirréd up
To stand upon thy guard,
That Death and Judgment may not come
And find thee unprepar'd.
Oh get a part in Christ,
And make the Judge thy Friend;
So shalt thou be assuréd of
A happy, glorious end.
Thus prays thy real Friend
And Servant for Christ's sake,
Who, had he strength, would not refuse
More pains for thee to take.
Michael Wigglesworth.