1

He seeks for ours as we do seek for his.

Nay O my Soul, ours is far more His Bliss

Then his is ours; at least it so doth seem

Both in his own and our Esteem.

2

His Earnest Lov, his Infinit Desires,

His Living, Endless, and Devouring fires,

Do rage in Thirst, and fervently require

A lov, tis Strange it should desire.

3

We cold and Careless are, and scarcely think

Upon the Glorious Spring wherat we Drink.

Did he not lov us, we could be content.

We Wretches are Indifferent!

4

He prizes our Lov with infinit Esteem.

And seeks it so that it doth almost seem

Even all his Blessedness. His Lov doth prize

It as the only Sacrifice

5

Tis Death my Soul to be Indifferent,

Set forth thy self unto thy whole Extent,

And all the Glory of his Passion prize,

Who for Thee livs, who for Thee Dies.

6

His Goodness made thy Lov so Great a Pleasure,

His Goodness made thy Soul so Great a Treasure

To Thee and Him: that thou mightst both inherit,

Prize it according to its Merit.

7

There is no Goodness nor Desert in Thee,

For which thy Lov so Coveted should be,

His Goodness is the fountain of thy Worth

O liv to lov and set it forth.

8

Thou Nothing givst to Him, he gav all Things,

To Thee, and made Thee like the King of Kings.

His Lov the fountain is of Heaven and Earth

The Caus of all thy Joy and Mirth.

9

Thy Lov is Nothing but it self, and yet

So infinit is his, that he doth set

A valu infinit upon it. Oh!

This, canst thou Careless be, and Know!

10

Let that same Goodness, which being infinit,

Esteems thy Lov with Infinit Delight,

Tho less then His, Tho Nothing, always be

An Object Infinit to Thee.