William Bradford

A few poems made by a friend on the deplored death of mr. john robinson, the wor

 Next Poem          

Blessed Robinson hath run his race,
From earth to heaven is gone,
To be with Christ, in heavenly place,
The blessed saints among.
A burning and a shining light
Was he while he was here,
A preacher of the gospel bright,
Whom we did love most dear.
What though he dead, his works alive,
And live will to all age.
The comfort of them pleasant is
To living saints each day.
Oh blessed holy savior,
The fountain of all grace,
From whom such blessed instruments
Are sent and run their race,
To lead us and guide us in
The way to happiness,
That so, oh Lord, we may always
For evermore confess,
That whosoever gospel preacher be,
Or waterer of the same,
We may always most constantly
Give glory to thy name.

Next Poem 

 Back to
William Bradford