Upon the Plowing of Corn-land
There’s skill in plowing, that the plowman knows,
For if too shallow, or too deep he goes,
The seed is either bury’d, or else may
To rooks and daws become an easy prey.
This, as a lively emblem, fitly may
Describe the blessed Spirit’s work and way:
Whose work on souls, with this doth symbolize;
Betwixt them both, thus the resemblance lies.
Souls are the soil, conviction is the plow,
God’s workmen draw, the Spirit shews them how.
He guides the work, and in good ground doth bless
His workmen’s pains, with sweet and fair success.
The heart prepar’d, he scatters in the seed,
Which in its season springs, no fowl nor weed
Shall pick it up, or choak this springing corn,
‘Till it be housed in the heavenly barn.
When thus the Spirit plows up the fallow ground,
When with such fruits his servant’s work is crown’d;
Let all the friends of Christ, and souls say now,
As they pass by the fields, God speed the plow.
Sometimes this plow thin shelfy ground doth turn,
That little seed which springs, the sun-beams burn.
The rest uncover’d lies, which fowls devour.
Alas! their heart was touch’d, but not with pow’r.
The cares and pleasures of this world have drown’d
The seed before it peep’d above the ground.
Some springs indeed, the Scripture saith that some
Do taste the powers of the world to come.
These embrios never come to timely birth,
Because the seed that’s sown wants depth of earth.
Turn up, O God, the bottom of my heart;
And to the seed that’s sown, do thou impart
Thy choicest blessing. Though I weep and mourn
In this wet seed-time, if I may return
With sheaves of joy; these fully will reqard
My pains and sorrows, be they ne’er so hard.
— John Flavel (1627-1691)
Upon the Patience of the Husbandman for the Harvest
No prudent husbandman expects
The fruit of what he sows,
‘Til every cause have its effects,
And then he reaps and mows:
He works in hope the year throughout,
And counts no labour lost,
If, when the season comes about,
His harvest quits his cost.
His rare example justly may
Rebuke and put to shame
My soul; which sows its seed and ease
And looks to reap the same.
Is cursed nature now become
So kind a soil to grace,
That to perfection it should come
Within so short a space?
Grace springs not up with seed and ease,
Like mushrooms in a night;
But rather by degrees increase,
As doth the morning light.
Is corn so dear to husbandmen?
Much more is heav’n to me;
Why should not I have patience then
To wait as well as he?
To promises, appointed years,
By God’s decrees, are set;
These once expir’d, beyond its fears
My soul shall quickly get.
How small a part of hasty time,
Which quickly will expire,
Doth me within this world confine,
And then comes my desire.
Come, Lord, how long my soul hath gasp’d!
Faith my affections warms;
O when shall my poor soul be clasp’d
In its Redeemer’s arms!
The time seems long, yet here I’ll lie,
‘Till thou, my God, do call:
It is enough, eternity
Will make amends for all.
— John Flavel (1627-1691)
If, after pains and patience, you can see
No hopes of fruit, down goes the barren tree.
You will not suffer trees that are unsound,
And barren too, to cumber useful ground.
The fatal ax is laid unto the root:
’Tis fit for fire, when unfit for fruit.
But, though this be a dead and barren tree,
Reader, I would not have it so to thee:
May it to thee this serious thought suggest,
In all the orchard this dead tree’s the best;
Think on it sadly, lay it close to heart,
This is the case in which thou wast, or art.
If so thou wast, but now dost live and grow,
And bring forth fruit, what praise and thanks dost owe
To that wise husbandman that made thee so?
O think, when justice lifted up its hand,
How mercy did then interceding stand!
How pity did on thy behalf appear,
To beg reprieval for another year.
Stop, Lord! forbear him: all hope is not past;
He can but be for fire at the last.
Though many sermons, many a gracious call
He hath resisted like a brazen wall,
The next may win him; when thy grace shall raise
Unto itself a monument of praise.
How should this mediation thaw and melt
The heart of him that hath such mercy felt?
But, if thou still remain a barren tree,
Then here, as in a mirror, thou may’st see
Thy wretched state, when justice, at a blow,
Requites God’s patience in thine overthrow.
And canst thou bear it? Can thy heart endure
To think of everlasting burnings? Sure,
This must thy lot, thy fearful portion be,
If thou continue still a barren tree.
— John Flavel (1627-1691)
Upon the Cutting Down of Dead Trees
Upon the Strange Means of Preserving the Life of Vegetables
Welcome my health, this sickness makes me well.
Med’cines adieu.
When with diseases I have list to dwell,
I’ll wish for you.
Welcome, my strength, this weakness makes me able.
Powers adieu.
When I am weary grown of standing stable,
I’ll wish for you.
Welcome, my wealth, this loss hath gain’d me more.
Riches adieu.
When I again grow greedy to be poor,
I’ll wish for you.
Welcome, my credit, this disgrace is glory,
Honours adieu.
When for renown and fame I shall be sorry,
I’ll wish for you.
Welcome content, this sorrow is my joy.
Pleasures adieu.
When I desire such griefs as may annoy,
I’ll wish for you.
Health, strength, and riches, credit and content,
Are spared best sometimes when they are spent.
Sickness and weakness, loss, disgrace and sorrow,
Lend most sometimes, when most they seem to borrow.
— John Flavel (1627-1691)
