Till from the straw, the flail the corn doth beat,
Until the chaff be purged from the wheat—
Yea, till the mill the grain in pieces tear,
The richness of the flour will scarce appear;
So, till men’s persons great afflictions touch,
If worth be found, their worth is not so much;
Because, like wheat in straw, they have not yet
That value which in thrashing they may get.
For, till the bruising flails of God’s corrections
Have threshed out of us our vain affections—
Till those corruptions, which do misbecome us,
Are by Thy Sacred Spirit winnowed from us.
Until from us the straw of worldly treasures—
Till all the dusty chaff of empty pleasures—
Yea, till His flail upon us He doth lay
To thrash the husk of this our flesh away,
And leave the soul uncovered—nay, yet more—
Till God shall make our very spirit poor,
We shall not up to highest wealth aspire,
And then we shall,—and that is my desire.