Reader's Diary: A poetic sister in Christ

Haven't read poetry in a long time. But when you find the right poet...wow. Magic happens.

As weary pilgrim, now at rest,
Hugs with dlelight his silent next,
His wasted limbs now lie full soft
That mirey steps have trodden oft,
Blesses himself to think upon
His dangers pst, and travails done.
The burning sun no more shall heat,
Nor stormy rains on him shall beat.
The briars and thorns no more shall scratch.
Nor hungry wolvesat him shall catch.
He erring paths no more shall tread,
Nor wild fruits eat instead of bread.
For waters cold he doth not long
For thirst no more shall parch his tongue.
No rugged stones his feet shall gall,
Nor stumps nor rocks cause him to fall.
All caes and fears he bids farewell
And means in safety now to dwell.
A pilgrim I, on earth perplexed
With sins, with cares and sorrows vext,
By age and pains brought to decay.
And my clay house mold'ring awa.
Oh, how I long to be at rest
And soar on high among the blest.
This body shall in silence sleep,
Mine eyes no more shall ever weep,
No fainting fits shall me assail,
Nor grinding pains my body frail,
With cares and fears ne'er cumb'red be
Nor losses know, now sorrows see.
What though my flesh shall there consume,
It is the bed Christ did perfume,
And when a few years shall be gone,
This mortal shall be clothed upon.
A corrupt carcass down it lies,
A glorious body it shall rise.
In weakness and dishonor sow,
In power 'tis raised by Christ alone.
The sould and body shall unite
And of their Maker have the sight.
Such lasting joys shall there behold
As ear ne'er heard nor tongue e'er told.
Lord make me ready for that day.
Then come, dear Bridegroom, come away.

- Anne Bradstreet, 1612-1672

* Note: The Tenth Muse [by Anne Bradstreet] was the first published volume of poems written by a resident of the New World... (Norton Anthology of Literature, Vol. A, 7th ed., pg. 187)