God’s Saints, on Earth, in’s loved Work, still grone:
In Heaven, their Works to sing around his Throne!
Time, for God’s Service, here, flees fast away:
His Servants, there, have Everlasting Day!
Of joyful Work, they ne’er shall know the Want:
Of Space, for Service, they can ne’er be scant.
They have no Time, to measure Motion by:
Past Time is chang’d, for blest Eternity!
Praise to the Lord! Who hath made me a Pen:
To write his Mind, to some of’s chosen Men!
Oh, use me, in thy Hand; thy Spirit give:
To write to thine, in Death, that they may live!
Pluck out the Hairs of Sin, and set me free;
To write for Thee, with glorious Liberty!
Lord, mend me still, and shape me by thine Art:
And for thy Service, ever keep me sharp!
And when on Earth, to write, I’m quite unfit:
Then fit me, Lord, for Heaven’s Nobler Writ!
Make me, an iron Pen, to write thy Praise;
In highest Strains, unto Eternal Days!
Text: Thoughts on Pens, in Letters on Spiritual Subjects, and Divers Occasions; sent to Relations and Friends. By one who has tasted that the Lord is gracious. Vol. X. (London: Printed by J. Hart, in Popping’s-Court, Fleet-Street; And sold by G. Keith, at the Bible and Crown, in Grace-church-street; and J. Fuller, in Blow-bladder-street, near Cheapside, 1762), 134-39; poem on p. 139.