Excerpt from Zion In Distress by Benjamin Keach (1681)

keachYou are to wait for God’s great Dispensations,
At whose disposal is the fate of the Nations;
His time is best, and in due Season he
Will bring this Beast to his Catastrophe.
He sits in Heaven, and beholds with Scorn,
This Rebels Pride. His glorious Son that’s born
Heir of the World, and Prince of Kingdoms too,
Shall surely Reign, because it is his due;
For all to him the Soveraign Rule must yield;
He shall the Crown and Royal Scepter wield:
Nations shall serve him; Kings that have abhor’d
His Name, shall pay him Homage, as their Lord.

by Benjamin Keach, 1681


Excerpt from Zion In Distress by Benjamin Keach (1681)

keachDid filthy Lust and Whoredom ever rage
With more success then in the present Age?
Abominations of so vile a Name,
That their bare mention is indeed a shame.
What Sin more hateful in Jehovah’s Eye?
Then this of Whoredom and Adultery?
‘Tis rank’d as Chief, and marches in the Van
Of all the gross Debaucheries of Man;
In those black Muster-Rolls God does record
Of grand Offences in his holy Word.
What more affronts the Second Table? Or
Provokes the Lord? No fitter Metaphor
Could be produc’d t’ express Idolatry,
Then that abhored Name, Adultery.
Besides the Terrors of God’s firey Wrath,
Which judges such to everlasting Death;
On Earth, amongst all sober men, they gain
So vile a blot, so infamous a stain,
As all the Waters in the Sea can nev’r
Wipe off, nor can it be forgot for ever.
But O what dismal Consequences wait
For speedy entrance at the wreches gate!

by Benjamin Keach, 1681

Excerpt from Panacea, A Poem Upon Tea by Nahum Tate (1700)

nahum“Hail! Queen of Plants, Pride of Elysian Bow’rs!
How shall we speak thy complicated Pow’rs?
Thou Wond’rous Panacea, to asswage
The Calentures of Youth’s fermenting Rage,
And Animate the freezing Veins of Age.
To Bacchus when our griefs repair for Ease,
The Remedy proves worse than the Disease:
Where Reason we must lose to keep the Round,
And drinking Others Healths, our Own confound:
Whilst TEA, our Sorrows safely to beguile,
Sobriety and Mirth does reconcile:
For to this Nectar we the Blessing owe,
To grow more Wise, as we more chearful grow.

by Nahum Tate, 1700

Of The Boy And Butterfly by John Bunyan (1600s)

Bunyan-for-Web-D(listen to this poem)

Behold how eager this our little boy
Is for this Butterfly, as if all joy,
All profits, honours, yea, and lasting pleasures,
Were wrapt up in her, or the richest treasures,

Found in her, would be bundled up together,
When all her all is lighter than a feather.
He halloos, runs, and cries out, Here, boys, here,
Nor doth he brambles or the nettles fear.

He stumbles at the mole-hills, up he gets,
And runs again, as one bereft of wits;
And all this labour and this large outcry,
Is only for a silly butterfly.


This little boy an emblem is of those
Whose hearts are wholly at the world’s dispose,
The butterfly doth represent to me,
The world’s best things at best but fading be.

All are but painted nothings and false joys,
Like this poor butterfly to these our boys.
His running through nettles, thorns, and briars,
To gratify his boyish fond desires;

His tumbling over mole-hills to attain
His end, namely, his butterfly to gain;
Doth plainly show what hazards some men run.
To get what will be lost as soon as won.

Men seem in choice, than children far more wise,
Because they run not after butterflies;
When yet, alas! for what are empty toys,
They follow children, like to beardless boys.

by John Bunyan

Almighty Maker Of My Frame by Anne Steele (1760)

Almighty Maker of my frame!
Teach me the measure of my days,
Teach me to know how frail I am,
And spend the remnant in Thy praise.

My days are shorter than a span,
A little point my life appears;
How frail at best is dying man!
How vain are all his hopes and fears!

Vain his ambition, noise and show;
Vain are the cares which rack his mind;
He heaps up treasures mixed with woe,
And dies and leaves them all behind.

O be a nobler portion mine!
My God, I bow before Thy throne;
Earth’s fleeting treasures I resign,
And fix my hope on Thee alone.

by Anne Steele, 1760