To the Christian Reader.

Reader, I am a fool, And have adventuréd To play the fool this once for Christ, The more his fame to spread. If this my foolishness Help thee to be more wise, I have attainéd what I seek. And what I only prize.

Thou wonderest, perhaps, That I in Print appear, Who to the Pulpit dwell so nigh, Yet come so seldom there. The God of Heaven knows What grief to me it is, To be withheld from serving Christ; No sorrow like to this.

This is the sorest pain That T have felt or feel; Yet have I stood some shocks that might Make stronger men to reel. I find more true delight In serving of the Lord, Than all the good things upon Earth, Without it, can afford.

And could my strength endure That work I count so dear, Not all the Riches of Peru Should hire me to forbear. But I’m a Prisoner, Under a heavy Chain; Almighty God’s afflicting hand Doth me by force restrain.

Yet some (I know) do judge Mine inability To come abroad and do Christ’s work. To be Melancholly; And that I’m not so weak As I myself conceit: But who in other things have found Me so conceited yet?

Or who of all my Friends That have my trials seen, Can tell the time in sevén years When I have dumpish been? Some think my voice is strong, Most times when I do Preach; But ten days after, what I feel And suffer few can reach.

My prison’d thoughts break forth, When open’d is the door. With greater force and violence, And strain my voice the more. But vainly do they tell That I am growing stronger, Who hear me speak in half an hour, Till I can speak no longer.

Some for because they see not My clieerfulness to fail, Nor that I am disconsolate, Do think I nothing ail. If they had borne my griefs, Their courage might have fail’d them, And all the Town (perhaps) have known (Once and again) what ail’d them.

But why should I complain That have so good a God, That doth mine heart with comfort till Ev’n whilst I feel his Rod? In God I have been strong, But wearied and worn out. And joy’d in him, when twenty woes Assail’d me round about.

Nor speak I this to boast. But make Apology For mine own self, and answer those That fail in Charity. I am, alas! as frail. Impatiént a creature, As most that tread upon the ground, And have as bad a nature.

Let God be magnified. Whose everlasting strength Upholds me under sufferings Of more than ten years’ length; Through whose Almighty pow’r Although I am surrounded With sorrows more than can be told, Yet am I not confounded.

For his dear sake have I This service undertaken, For I am bound to honor him Who hath not me forsaken. I am a Debtor too, Unto the sons of Men, Whom, wanting other means, I would Advantage with my Pen.

I would, but ah! my strength. When triéd, proves so small, That to the ground without effect My wishes often fall. Weak heads, and hands, and states, Great things cannot produce ; And therefore I this little Piece Have publish’d for thine use.

Although the thing be small, Yet my good will therein. Is nothing less than if it had A larger Volume been. Accept it then in love, And read it for thy good; There’s nothing in ’t can do thee hurt, If rightly understood.

The God of Heaven grant These Lines so well to speed, That thou the things of thine own peace Through them may’st better heed; And may’st be stirréd up To stand upon thy guard. That Death and Judgment may not come And find thee unprepar’d.

Oh get a part in Christ, And make the Judge thy Friend; So shalt thou be assuréd of A happy, glorious end. Thus prays thy real Friend And Servant for Christ’s sake, Who, had he strength, would not refuse More pains for thee to take.

Michael Wigglesworth.