Edward Taylor(ea, 1642–1729)
Meditation 8 ("I kenning through astronomy divine")
I kenning2 through astronomy divine
The world's bright battlement, wherein I spyheavens
A golden path my pencil cannot line,
From that bright throne unto my threshold lie.
And while my puzzled thoughts about it pore
I find the bread of life in it at my door.
When that this bird of paradise3 put in
This wicker cage (my corpse) 4 to tweedle 0 praisesing
Had pecked the fruit forbad,5 and so did fling
Away its food, and lost its golden days,
It fell into celestial famine sore,
And never could attain a morsel more.
Alas! alas! Poor bird, what wilt thou do
The creatures' field no food for souls e'er gave.
And if thou knock at angels' doors they show
An empty barrel; they no soul bread have.
Alas! Poor bird, the world's white loaf6 is done,
And cannot yield thee here the smallest crumb.
In this sad state, God's tender bowels' run
Out streams of grace; and he to end all strife
The purest wheat in heaven, his dear, dear son
Grinds, and kneads up into this bread of life.
Which bread of life from heaven down came and stands
Dished on my table up by angels' hands.
D i d G o d m o u l d up this b r e a d in heaven, a n d bake,
W h i c h f r o m his table c a m e , a n d to thine goeth
D o t h he b e s p e a k thee thus: T h i s soul b r e a d take;
C o m e eat thy fill of this thy G o d ' s white loaf
It's f o o d too fine for angels, yet c o m e , take
A n d eat thy fill: it's heaven's s u g a r cake.
What grace is this knead 0 in this loaf This thingkneaded
S o u l s are but petty things it to a d m i r e .
Ye angels, help. T h i s fill w o u l d to the brim
Heaven's whelmed-down 8 crystal meal bowl, yea and higher,
This bread of life dropped in thy mouth, doth cry:
E a t , eat m e , soul, a n d t h o u shalt never die.
1937