Analysis of A Postscript unto the Reader



And now good Reader, I return again
To talk with thee, who hast been at the pain
To read throughout, and heed what went before;
And unto thee I'le speak a little more.
Give ear, I pray thee, unto what I say,
That God may hear thy voice another day.
Thou hast a Soul, my friend, and so have I,
To save or lose; a Soul that cannot die,
A soul of greater price than God and Gems;
A Soul more worth than Crowns and Diadems;
A Soul at first created like its Maker,
And of Gods Image made to be partaker:
Upon the wings of Noblest faculties,
Taught for to soar above the Starry Skies,
And not to rest, until it understood
It self possessed of the chiefest good.
And since the Fall, thy Soul retaineth still
Those Faculties of Reason and of Will,
But Oh, how much deprav'd, and out of frame,
As if they were some others, not the same.
Thine Understanding dismally benighted,
And Reason'd eye in Sp'ritual things dim-sighted,
Or else stark blind: Thy Will inclin'd to evil,
And nothing else, a Slave unto the Devil;
That loves to live, and liveth to transgress,
But shuns the way of God and Holiness.
All thin Affections are disordered;
And thou by head-strong Passions are misled.
What need I tell thee of thy crooked way,
And many wicked wand'rings every day?
Or that thine own transgressions are more
In number, than the sands upon the Shore:
Thou art a lump of wickedness become,
And may'st with horrour think upon thy Doom,
Until thy Soul be washed in the flood
Of Christ's most dear, soul-cleansing precious blood.
That, that alone can do away thy sin
Which thou wert born, and hast long lived in.
That, only that, can pacifie Gods wrath,
If apprehended by a lively Faith,
Now whilst the day and means of Grace do last,
Before the opportunity be past.
But if O man, thou liv'st a Christless creature,
And Death surprize thee in a state of nature,
(As who can tell but that may be thy case)
How wilt thou stand before the Judge's face?
When he shall be reveal'd in faming fire,
And come to pay ungodly men their hire:
To execute due vengeance upon those
That knew him not, or that have been his foes?
What wilt thou answer unto his demands,
When he requires a reason at thy hands
Of all the things that thou hast said, or done,
Or left undone, or set thine heart upon?
When he shall thus with thee expostulate,
What cause hadst thou thy Maker for to hate,
To take up Arms against thy Soveraign,
And Enmity against him to maintain?
What injury hath God Almighty done thee?
What good hath he with-held that might have won thee?
What evil, or injustice, hast thou found
In him, that might unto thine hurt redound?
If neither felt, nor feared injury
Hath moved thee to such hostility;
What made thee then the Fountain to forsake,
And unto broken Pits thy self betake?
What reason hadst thou to dishonour God,
Who thee with Mercies never cease to load?
Because the Lord was good, hast thou been evil,
And taken part against him with the Devil?
For all his cost to pay him with despite,
And all his love with hatred to requite?
Is this the fruit of Gods great patience,
To wax more bold in disobedience?
To kick against the bowels of his Love,
Is this aright his Bounty to improve?
Stand still, ye Heav'ns and be astonished,
That God by man should thus be injured!
Give ear, O Earth, and tremble at the sin
Of those that thine Inhabitants have bin.
But thou, vile Wretch, hast added unto all
Thine other faults, and facts so criminal,
The damning sin of wilful unbelief,
Of all Transgressors hadst thou been the chief;
Yet when time was, thou might'st have been set free
From Sin, and Wrath, and punishment by mee.
But thou wouldst not accept of Gospel Grace,
Nor on my terms Eternal Life embrace.
As if that all thy breaches of Gods Law
Were not enough upon thy head to draw
Eternal Wrath: Thou hast despis'd a Saviour,
Rejected me, and trampled on my favour.
How oft have I stood Knocking at thy door,
And been denied entrance evermore?
How often hath my Spirit been withstood,
When as I sent him to have done thee good?
Thou hast no need of any one to plead
Thy Cause, or for thy Soul to intercede:
Plead for thy self, it thou hast ought to say,
And pay thy forfeiture without delay.
Behold thou dost ten thousand Talents owe,
Or pay thy Debt, or else to Prison go.
Think, think, O Man, when Christ shall thus unfold
Thy secret guilt, and make thee to behold
The ugly face of all thy sinful errours,
And fill thy Soul with his amazing terrours,
And let thee see the flaming Pi


Scheme Text too long
Poetic Form
Metre 0111010101 1111111101 1101011101 01011010101 1111110111 1111110101 1101110111 1111011101 0111011101 01111101 01110101110 011101111 0101110100 1111010101 011101101 11011011 01011111 1100110011 1111010111 1110110101 1010100010 0101011110 11111101110 01010110010 111101101 1101110100 110101010 0111110101 1111111101 01010111001 111101011 0101010101 1101110001 0111110111 011111001 1111110101 1101110111 111101110 11011111 101010101 1101011111 010010011 11111110110 0111001110 1111111111 1111010101 1111010110 01110101110 110110011 1111111111 1111010101 11010010111 1101111111 1101111101 1111111 1111110111 11110111 0100011101 11001101011 11111111111 1101010111 0111101101 110111100 111110100 1111010101 0101011101 11011111 1111010111 01011111110 01010111010 1111111101 011111011 110111110 111100100 1101010111 111110101 111101010 111111110 1111010101 1111010011 1111110101 1101011100 0101111 11111101 11111111111 1101010011 1111011101 1111010101 1111110111 0101011111 0101110101 0101010111 1111110111 01011010 1101110101 1111111111 1111110111 111111101 1111111111 0111000101 0111110101 1111111101 1111111101 1101011101 0101111101 0111110101 01110101
Closest metre Iambic pentameter
Characters 4,364
Words 835
Sentences 33
Stanzas 1
Stanza Lengths 107
Lines Amount 107
Letters per line (avg) 33
Words per line (avg) 8
Letters per stanza (avg) 3,481
Words per stanza (avg) 835
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on April 26, 2023

4:14 min read
124

Michael Wigglesworth

Michael Wigglesworth was a Puritan minister, doctor and poet whose poem The Day of Doom was a bestseller in early New England. more…

All Michael Wigglesworth poems | Michael Wigglesworth Books

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    What is the term for the continuation of a sentence without a pause beyond the end of a line, couplet, or stanza.
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