Wilt thou love God, as he thee! Then digest,
My soule, this wholsome meditation,
How God the Spirit, by Angels waited on
In heaven, doth make his Temple in thy breast.
The Father having begot a Sonne most blest,
And still begetting, (for he ne’r begonne)
Hath deign’d to chuse thee by adoption,
Coheire t’ his glory, and Sabbath’s endlesse rest.
And as a robb’d man, which by search doth finde
His stol’n stuff sold, must lose or buy ‘t againe:
The Sonne of glory came downe, and was slain,
Us whom he’d made, and Satan stol’n, to unbinde.
‘Twas much, that man was made like God before,
But, that God should be made like man, much more.
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