A propheticall love-song by one of the sons of Zion, in the dayes of his youth, in his travel towards the holy land through the wilderness. Being a certain true testimony by an infallible spirit of prophesie, of what should befall him in his safe arrival there, with the certainty of that and his portion then. In which is intermingled the miserable estate of all the gentiles, the wicked world, the backsliding house of Israel, the Jews called by the name of Quakers, as it was given forth about the beginning of the a month, 1661. With several other things since, and some before, as at the beginning of each is expressed. And now published in its season, by John Thomas.

Sobs, sighs, and grones, in deep distresse of spirit, uttered forth in these following lines.

WHen shall I cease? when shall I once forbear, With sighes and sobs my inward All to tear? The weight is great, in grief therefore I grone, My grievous wounds are cured yet by none; They inward bleed like Ulcers out of sight, Who can come at my wound to cure it right? Who shall I seek that can right pity take? Who can me ease and sound my wound once make? My Friends they are become like mortal foes, Instead of help they do augment my woes: They cannot see into my wound, and say, This is the cure, this is the onely way. Their words, their deeds doth but increase my grief; Small is their help and bitter their relief: Then all Relations of the earthly birth, Condemn my sadnesse and cry out for mirth; Their jolly natures can no pleasure take In one so sad, unlesse he'l merry make. Behold! all help is far removed from me, To ease my pain, my grief, my misery. Thus am I left alone to sigh and sob, To grieve and mourn with many a bitter throb. I am like one that's swallowed in the deep, That out of darknesse never more should peep;

But Jonah like that lay within the Whale Until commanded by a gentle gale, To bring him forth, and lay him on the shore: Thus was he saved, Why may not I therefore Expect Deliverance from the self same hand, That Jonah saved and brought him safe to Land? He is the same in every sort and kind, A God that fails not, when it is his mind: 'Tis he alone that hath good balm in store, To cure all wounds, if they be never so sore. Though they be mortal his immortal hand, Can with one touch, make mortals well to stand. Oh this is he that I must onely have, To raise the immortal from the mortal grave. Il'e seek no more, I have the Physick found, And the Physician that can cure my wound. I will abandon every friend and foe For any Physick, but will to him go.

First written about the latter end of the 2. month or the beginning of the 3. 1661.