What love is this of thine, that cannot be
In thine infinity, O Lord, confined,
Unless it in thy very person see
Infinity, and finity, conjoined?
What! Hath thy Godhead, as not satisfied,
Married our manhood, making it its bride?
Oh, matchless love! Filling Heaven to the brim!
O’er running it; all running o’er beside
This world! Nay, overflowing hell, wherein
For thine elect there rose a mighty tide,
That there our veins might through thy person bleed
To quench those flames that else would on us feed!
Oh, that thy love might over flow my heart,
To fire the same with love! For love I would.
But oh, my straitened breast! My lifeless spark!
My fireless flame! What chilly love, and cold?
In measure small? In manner chilly? See!
Lord, blow the coal, thy love inflame in me.
~ Edward Taylor, 1642-1729