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    John Bunyan's Poetry: Divine Emblems
    John Bunyan's Poetry: Divine Emblems
    John Bunyan's Poetry: Divine Emblems
    Ebook160 pages2 hours

    John Bunyan's Poetry: Divine Emblems

    By John Bunyan

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    About this ebook

    Few Christians have impacted the church as has John Bunyan. If you enjoyed Pilgrim's Progress, The Holy War, or any of his various evergreen writings, do also allow yourself the reward of soaking in John Bunyan's classic, Christian poetry. You will be delighted as a child, challenged if a sinner, and rewarded richly as a fellow believer.

    About the Author
    John Bunyan was born November 1628, in Elstow, England. A celebrated English minister and preacher, he wrote The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678), the book that was the most characteristic expression of the Puritan religious outlook. His other works include doctrinal and controversial writings; a spiritual autobiography, Grace Abounding (1666); and the allegory The Holy War (1682).

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAneko Press
    Release dateFeb 3, 2017
    ISBN9781622454280
    John Bunyan's Poetry: Divine Emblems
    Author

    John Bunyan

    John Bunyan (1628–1688) was a Reformed Baptist preacher in the Church of England. He is most famous for his celebrated Pilgrim's Progress, which he penned in prison. Bunyan was author of nearly sixty other books and tracts, including The Holy War and Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners. 

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      Book preview

      John Bunyan's Poetry - John Bunyan

      UPON THE BARREN FIG-TREE IN GOD’S VINEYARD

      What, barren here! in this so good a soil?

      The sight of this doth make God’s heart recoil

      From giving thee his blessing; barren tree,

      Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!

      Art thou not planted by the water-side?

      Know’st not thy Lord by fruit is glorified?

      The sentence is, Cut down the barren tree:

      Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be.

      Hast thou been digg’d about and dunged too,

      Will neither patience nor yet dressing do?

      The executioner is come, O tree,

      Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!

      He that about thy roots takes pains to dig,

      Would, if on thee were found but one good fig,

      Preserve thee from the axe: but, barren tree,

      Bear fruit, or else thy end will cursed be!

      The utmost end of patience is at hand,

      ‘Tis much if thou much longer here doth stand.

      O cumber-ground, thou art a barren tree.

      Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!

      Thy standing nor they name will help at all;

      When fruitful trees are spared, thou must fall.

      The axe is laid unto thy roots, O tree!

      Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be.

      II

      UPON THE LARK AND THE FOWLER

      Thou simple bird, what makes thou here to play?

      Look, there’s the fowler, pr’ythee come away.

      Do’st not behold the net? Look there, ‘tis spread,

      Venture a little further, thou art dead.

      Is there not room enough in all the field

      For thee to play in, but thou needs must yield

      To the deceitful glitt’ring of a glass,

      Plac’d betwixt nets, to bring thy death to pass?

      Bird, if thou art so much for dazzling light,

      Look, there’s the sun above thee; dart upright;

      Thy nature is to soar up to the sky,

      Why wilt thou come down to the nets and die?

      Take no heed to the fowler’s tempting call;

      This whistle, he enchanteth birds withal.

      Or if thou see’st a live bird in his net,

      Believe she’s there, ‘cause hence she cannot get.

      Look how he tempteth thee with is decoy,

      That he may rob thee of thy life, thy joy.

      Come, pr’ythee bird, I pr’ythee come away,

      Why should this net thee take, when ‘scape thou may?

      Hadst thou not wings, or were thy feathers pull’d,

      Or wast thou blind, or fast asleep wer’t lull’d,

      The case would somewhat alter, but for thee,

      Thy eyes are ope, and thou hast wings to flee.

      Remember that thy song is in thy rise,

      Not in thy fall; earth’s not thy paradise.

      Keep up aloft, then, let thy circuits be

      Above, where birds from fowler’s nets are free.

      Comparison

      This fowler is an emblem of the devil,

      His nets and whistle, figures of all evil.

      His glass an emblem is of sinful pleasure,

      And his decoy of who counts sin a treasure.

      This simple lark’s a shadow of a saint,

      Under allurings, ready now to faint.

      This admonisher a true teacher is,

      Whose works to show the soul the snare and bliss,

      And how it may this fowler’s net escape,

      And not commit upon itself this rape.

      III

      UPON THE VINE-TREE

      What is the vine, more than another tree?

      Nay most, than it, more tall, more comely be.

      What workman thence will take a beam or pin,

      To make ought which may be delighted in?

      Its excellency in its fruit doth lie:

      A fruitless vine, it is not worth a fly.

      Comparison

      What are professors more than other men?

      Nothing at all. Nay, there’s not one in ten,

      Either for wealth, or wit, that may compare,

      In many things, with some that carnal are.

      Good are they, if they mortify their sin,

      But without that, they are not worth a pin.

      IV

      MEDITATIONS UPON AN EGG

      The egg’s no chick by falling from the hen;

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