A
Contemplation
upon
the Mystery of MAN's Regeneration,
In Allusion to the Mystery of
PRINTING.

GREAT Blest MASTER-PRINTER, Come
Into thy Composing-Room:
Wipe away our foul Offenses;
Make, O make our Souls and Senses,
The Upper and the Lower Cases;
And thy large Alphabet of Graces
The Letter, which being ever fit;
O haste thou to Distribute it:
For there is (I make Account)
No Imperfection in the Fount.
If any Letters Face be foul,
O wash it, ere it touch the Soul;
Contrition be the Brush; the Lye,
Tears from a Penitential Eye.
Thy Graces so Distributed,
Think not thy Work half finished:
On still, O LORD, no Time defer,
Be truly a COMPOSITOR.
Take thy Composing-Stick in Hand,
Thy Holy Word, the firmest Band;
For sure that Work can never miss,
That's truly Justify'd in this.
The End of Grace's Distribution,
Is not a meer Dissolution;
But that from each Part being cited,
They may be again United:
Let Righteousness and Peace then meet,
Mercy and Truth each other greet;
Let these Letters make a Word,
Let these Words a Line afford,
Then of Lines a Page compose,
Which being brought unto a Close,
Be Thou the Direction, LORD;
Let Love be the fast-binding Cord.
Set, O LORD, O Set apace,
That we may grow from Grace to Grace;
Till tow'rds the Chace we nearer draw,
The Two strong Tables of Thy Law,
Of which the Two firm Crosses be,
The Love of Man, next after Thee.
The Head-Sticks are Thy Majesty;
The Foot-Sticks, Christ's Humility;
The Supplications of the Saints,
The Side-Sticks, when our Faith e'er faints;
Let the Quines be Thy sure Election,
Which admits of no rejection;
With which our Souls being join'd about,
Not the least Grace can drop out.
Thy Mercies and Allurements all;
Thy Shooting-Stick and Mallet call.
But when all this done we see,
Who shall the CORRECTOR be?
O LORD, What Thou Set'st cann't be ill,
It needs then no CORRECTOR's skill.
Now tho' these Graces are all Set,
Our Hearts are but White-Paper yet;
And by Adam's First Transgression,
Fit only for the worst Impression.
Thy Holy Spirit the PRESS-MAN make,
From whom we may Perfection take;
And let Him no Time defer,
To Print on us Thy Character.
Let the Ink be Black as Jet;
What though? It is comely yet,
As Courtains of King Solomon,
Or Kedars Tents to look upon.
Be Victory the Press's Head,
That o'er Oppression it may tread.
Let Divine Contemplation be
The Skrews, to raise us up to Thee:
The Press's Two Cheeks (Unsubdu'd)
Strong Constancy and Fortitude:
Our slavish Flesh let be the Till,
Whereon lay what Trash you will:
To move the Work with Easiness:
The Platten is Affliction,
Which makes good Work, being hard set on.
The Bar, the Spirit's instrument,
To sanctifie our Punishment.
The Blankets, a Resemblance hath
Of Mercy in the midst of Wrath.
The Frisket, thy Preventing Grace,
Keeps us from many a sully'd Face.
CHRIST JESUS is the Level Stone
That our Hearts must be Wrought upon.
the Coffin, wherein it doth ly,
Is Rest to all Eternity.
The Cramp-Irons, that it moves on still,
Are the good Motions of the Will.
The Rounce, the Spirit's Inspiration,
Working an Holy Agitation.
The Girts, the Gift of Continence,
The Tether of th' Unbridled Sense.
The Winter, whereon all doth ly,
Is Patience in Adversity.
The Footstep, Humbleness of Mind,
That in it self no Worth can find.
If there be such a Chance as this,
That any Letter batter'd is,
Being come unto thy View,
Take it out, put in a new.
Or if Satan, that foul Fiend,
Marr, with a Pretence to Mend,
And being at thy Goodness vext,
Makes Blasphemy of thy pure Text,
Find it out, O LORD, and then
Print our Hearts new o'er agen.
O LORD, unto this Work make hast,
'Tis a Work that long will last:
And when this White-Paper's done,
Work a Reiteration.
FINIS.