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Poem by John Milton
Done Aug. 8. 1653. Terzetti. Why do the Gentiles tumult, and the Nations Muse a vain thing, the Kings of th'earth upstand With power, and Princes in their Congregations Lay deep their plots together through each Land, Against the Lord and his Messiah dear. Let us break off; say they, by strength of hand Their bonds, and cast from us, no more to wear, Their twisted cords: he who in Heaven doth dwell Shall laugh, the Lord shall scoff them, then severe Speak to them in his wrath, and in his fell And fierce ire trouble them; but I saith hee Anointed have my King (though ye rebell) On Sion my holi' hill. A firm decree I will declare; the Lord to me hath say'd Thou art my Son I have begotten thee This day, ask of me, and the grant is made; As thy possession I on thee bestow Th'Heathen, and as thy conquest to be sway'd Earths utmost bounds: them shalt thou bring full low With Iron Sceptir bruis'd, and them disperse Like to a potters vessel shiver'd so. And now be wise at length ye Kings averse Be taught ye Judges of the earth; with fear Jehovah serve and let your joy converse With trembling; Kiss the Son least he appear In anger and ye perish in the way If once his wrath take fire like fuel sere. Happy all those who have in him their stay.
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