2 Who is the man that walks in thee? who loves Heaven's secret solitude, those fair abodes, Where turtles build, and careless sparrows move, Without to-morrow's evils and future loads?
3 Who hath the upright heart, the single eye, The clean, pure hand, which never meddled pitch? Who sees invisibles, and doth comply With hidden treasures that make truly rich?
4 He that doth seek and love The things above, Whose spirit ever poor is, meek, and low; Who simple still and wise, Still homeward flies, Quick to advance, and to retreat most slow.
5 Whose acts, words, and pretence Have all one sense, One aim and end; who walks not by his sight; Whose eyes are both put out, And goes about Guided by faith, not by exterior light.
6 Who spills no blood, nor spreads Thorns in the beds Of the distressed, hasting their overthrow; Making the time they had Bitter and sad, Like chronic pains, which surely kill, though slow.
7 Who knows earth nothing hath Worth love or wrath, But in his Hope and Rock is ever glad. Who seeks and follows peace, When with the ease And health of conscience it is to be had.
8 Who bears his cross with joy, And doth employ His heart and tongue in prayers for his foes; Who lends not to be paid, And gives full aid Without that bribe which usurers impose.
9 Who never looks on man Fearful and wan, But firmly trusts in God; the great man's measure, Though high and haughty, must Be ta'en in dust; But the good man is God's peculiar treasure.
10 Who doth thus, and doth not These good deeds blot With bad, or with neglect; and heaps not wrath By secret filth, nor feeds Some snake, or weeds, Cheating himself--That man walks in this path.
I see the temple in thy pillar reared, And that dread glory which thy children feared, In mild, clear visions, without a frown, Unto thy solitary self is shown. 'Tis number makes a schism: throngs are rude, And God himself died by the multitude. This made him put on clouds, and fire, and smoke; Hence he in thunder to thy offspring spoke. The small, still voice at some low cottage knocks, But a strong wind must break thy lofty rocks.
The first true worship of the world's great King From private and selected hearts did spring; But he most willing to save all mankind, Enlarged that light, and to the bad was kind. Hence catholic or universal came A most fair notion, but a very name. For this rich pearl, like some more common stone, When once made public, is esteemed by none. Man slights his Maker when familiar grown, And sets up laws to pull his honour down. This God foresaw: and when slain by the crowd, Under that stately and mysterious cloud Which his death scattered, he foretold the place And form to serve him in should be true grace, And the meek heart; not in a mount, nor at Jerusalem, with blood of beasts and fat. A heart is that dread place, that awful cell, That secret ark, where the mild Dove doth dwell, When the proud waters rage: when heathens rule By God's permission, and man turns a mule, This little Goshen, in the midst of night And Satan's seat, in all her coasts hath light; Yea, Bethel shall have tithes, saith Israel's stone, And vows and visions, though her foes cry, None. Thus is the solemn temple sunk again Into a pillar, and concealed from men. And glory be to his eternal name, Who is contented that this holy flame Shall lodge in such a narrow pit, till he With his strong arm turns our captivity!