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PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 80, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: This curious pearle, one syllable, call'd life
Last Line: The babe of life swath'de up in grace shall sing.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


This Curious pearle, One Syllable, call'd LIFE,
That all things struggle t'keep, and we so prize
I'd with the Edge of sharpen'd sight (as knife)
My understanding sheath'th anatomize
But finde Life far too fine, I can not know't.
My sight too Dull; my knife's too blunt to do't.

And if you say, What then is Life? I say
I cannot tell you what it is, yet know
That Various kinds of Life lodg in my clay.
And ery kinde an Excellence doth show:
And yet the lowest sort so secret lies
I cannot finde it nor anatomize.

But here I finde, that all these kindes proove Stares
Whereon I do ascende to heaven to,
My Lord, thyselfe, and so do mock earths Snares
Those snick snarls, and thus my Soul Steps goe
From Vegetate to Sensitive thence trace
To Rationall, and thence to th'Life of Grace.

What though I know not what it is? I know,
It is too good to bee full known by any
Poor Perblinde man, that squints on things, although
It's Life, its quickening Life to very many,
Yea t'all th'Elect. It is a slip up bred
Of Godlike life, in graces garden bed.

Grace is the Pearle, the Mother Pearle of Pearles
In which this Pearle of Life is kirnell choice.
Christ dropt it in the Soule, which up it ferles
A Lignum Vitae's chip of Paradise.
Its Heart and Soule of Saving Grace outspred
And can't be had till Grace be brought to bed.

The Soule's the Womb. Christ is the Spermodote
And Saving Grace the seed cast thereinto,
This Life's the principall in Graces Coate,
Making vitality in all things flow,
In Heavenly verdure brisking holily
With sharp ey'de peartness of Vivacity.

Dead Looks, and Wanness, all things on them weare,
If this Life Quickens not, Things Spirituall Dead.
The Image too of God is grown third bare
If this Choice Life be n't with Christ's body fed.
All other lives dance on, in hellish wayes
Eternally, unless this Life out blaze.

Thou art, my Lord, the Well-spring of this life.
Oh! let this Life send Rivelets in my heart.
That I may by lifes streames in Holy Strife
Conquour that death, at whose dead Looks I start.
When of this Life my soule with Child doth spring
The Babe of Life swath'de up in Grace shall sing.





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