Thoughts on Pens (1762)

  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.