The pilgrim's viaticum, or, The destitute but not forlorn being a divine poem / digested from meditations upon the Holy Scripture by Eliz. Tipper.

On THANKSGIVING.

IN the Abyss of Sorrow, dark and deep, Where heavy Mortals drouze but cannot sleep, Rackt with an agonizing Grief, I lay, My Heart all Pulse, my Flesh distemper'd Clay; My self no more my self, my Thoughts all were, Through Terrors great, near Borderers on despair; None but black Minutes did on me attend, No Breath I fetcht, but did in Sighs ascend; And while my Time thus dismally did wast, Methoughts all Hopes of better Things was past: So run the Night of Trouble, but the Morrow Succeeds with Joy, that equall'd all my Sorrow;

Out of the Pit of this Affliction, I Am carried to a Spacious Liberty; Comfort, like Walls, my Residence surround; Comfort, the Voice and Eccho all resound: My Prayers, which just before in begging mourn'd, To Joyful Praises, for the Grant, is turn'd: What shall I render, how shall I extol The uplifting of my Heart, recovery of my Fall; Shall it suffice to Celebrate one Day? Not the whole seven the Acknowledgment can pay? A larger Stock of Gratitude I crave, That on my Heart this MERCY Heaven engrave; Beyond the Race of Time, and Fortune's Lot, With glad Remembrance ne're to be forgot.