I'm tired of visits, modes and forms

1 I'm tir'd with visits, modes and forms,
And flatteries paid to fellow-worms
Their conversation cloys;
Their vain amouurs, and empty stuff:
But I can ne'er enjoy enough
Of thy blest company my Lord,
Thou life of all my joys.

2 When he begins to tell his love,
Through ev'ry vein my passions move,
The captives of his tongue;
In midnight shades, on frosty ground,
I could attend the pleasing sound,
Nor should I feel December cold,
Nor think the darkness long.

3 There, while I hear my Saviour God,
Count o'er the sins (a heavy load)
He bore upon the tree,
Inward I blush with secret shame,
And weep, and love, and bless the name
That knew not guilt nor grief his own,
But bare it all for me.

4 Next he describes the thorns he wore,
And talks his bloody passions o'er,
Till I am drown'd in tears;
Yet with the sympathetic smart,
There's a strange joy beats round my heart,
The cursed tree has blessings in't,
My sweetest balm it bears.

5 I hear the glorious sufferer tell,
How on his cross he vanquish'd hell,
And all the powers beneath:
Transported and inspir'd my tongue,
Attempts his triumphs in a song;
How has the serpent lost his sting,
And where's thy victory death?

6 But when he shews his hands and heart,
With those dear prints of dying smart,
He sets my soul on fire:
Nor the beloved John could rest
With more delight upon that breast,
Nor Thomas pry into those wounds
With more intense desire.

7 Kindly he opens me his ear,
And bids me pour my sorrow there,
And tell him all my pains:
Thus, while I ease my burthen'd heart,
In ev'ry woe he bears a part,
His arms embrace me, and his hand
My drooping head sustains.

8 Fly from my thoughts, all human things,
And sporting swains, and fighting kings,
And tales of wanton love:
My soul disdains that little snare
The tangles of Amira's hair;
Thine arms, my God, are sweeter bands;
Nor can my heart remove.


Source: A Collection of Hymns, selected from sundry poets: together with a number of new poems, never before published #X