by Edward Taylor

In Heaven soaring up, I dropt an Eare
     On Earth: and oh! sweet Melody!
And listening, found it was the Saints who were
     Encoacht for Heaven that sang for Joy.
     For in Christs Coach they sweetly sing,
     As they to Glory ride therein.

Oh! joyous hearts! Enfir'de with holy Flame!
     Is speech thus tasseled with praise?
Will not your inward fire of Joy contain,
     That it in open flames doth blaze?
     For in Christs Coach Saints sweetly sing,
     As they to Glory ride therein.

And if a string do slip by Chance,
     They soon Do screw it up again: whereby
They set it in a more melodious Tune
     And a Diviner Harmony. For in Christs
     Coach they sweetly sing,
     As they to Glory ride therein.

In all their Acts, publick and private, nay,
     And secret too, they praise impart.
But in their Acts Divine, and Worship, they
     With Hymns do offer up their Heart.
     Thus in Christs Coach they sweetly sing,
     As they to Glory ride therein.

Some few not in; and some whose Time and Place
     Block up this Coaches way, do goe
As Travellers afoot: and so do trace
     The Road that gives them right thereto;
     While in this Coach these sweetly sing,
     As they to Glory ride therein.

Index to the Poems of Edward Taylor Poetry Index