The TILLING of the Heart..

Ezek. xxxvi. 9.

I will turn unto you, and ye shall be tilled and sown.

EPIG. 27.

MINE heart's a field, thy cross a plough: le pleas'd,
Dear Spouse, to till it, till the mould be rais'd

Fit for the seeding of thy word: then sow,
And if thou shine upon it, it will grow.

So now methinks I find
Some better vigour in my mind;
My will begins to move,

And mine affections stir towards things above :
Mine heart grows big with hope; it is a field
That some good fruit may yield,

If it were till'd as it should be,
Not by myself but thee.

2.

Great husbandman, whose pow'r
All difficulties can devour,

And do what likes thee best,

Let not thy field, my heart, lie by, and rest;
Lest it be over-run with noisome weeds,

That spring of their own seeds:
Unless thy grace the growth should stop,
Sin would be all my crop.

Break

Cordis Agrum crucis ja tue proscindal Aratram,

Cui verbi inspergas Semina Sponse tui.

The TILLING of the HEART

Lord, with thy Plow break up this Heart of mine, And fit it to receive the Seed divine.

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3.

Break up my fallow ground,

That there may not a clod be found
To hide one root of sin.

Apply thy plough betime: now, now begin
To furrow up my stiff and starvy heart;
No matter for the smart,
Although it roar, when it is rent,
Let not thine hand relent.

4.

Corruption's rooted deep,

Showers of repentant tears must steep
The mould, to make it soft :

It must be stirr'd, and turn'd, not once, but oft.
Let it have all its seasons. O impart
The best of all thine art :
For of itself it is so tough,
All will be but enough.

5.

Or, if it be thy will

To teach me, let me learn the skill
Myself to plow mine heart :

The profit will be mine, and 'tis my part
To take the pains, and labour, though th' increase
Without thy blessing cease:

If fit for nothing else, yet thou
May'st make me draw thy plough:

6.

Which of thy ploughs thou wilt,
For thou hast more than one. My guilt,
Thy wrath, thy rods, are all

Ploughs fit to tear mine heart to pieces small :
And when, in these, it apprehends thee near,
"Tis furrowed with fear:

Each weed, turn'd under, hides its head,
And shews as it were dead.

7.

But, Lord, thy blessed passion
Is a plough of another fashion,
Better than all the rest.
Oh fasten me to that, and let the rest
Of all my powers strive to draw it in,

And leave no room for sin.
The virtue of thy death can make
Sin its fast hold forsake.

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