New Testament Inspired Words of James Nayler - Nayler Sonnet 23 by K. Boulding

New Testament Inspired:

Beautiful Quaker Words: James Nayler’s Deathbed Testimony

 

There is a spirit which I feel that delights to do no evil, nor to revenge any wrong, but delights to endure all things, in hope to enjoy its own in the end. Its hope is to outlive all wrath and contention, and to weary out all exaltation and cruelty, or whatever is of a nature contrary to itself. It sees to the end of all temptations. As it bears no evil in itself, so it conceives none in thought to any other. If it be betrayed, it bears it, for its ground and spring is the mercies and forgiveness of God. Its crown is meekness, its life is everlasting love unfeigned; it takes its kingdom with entreaty and not with contention, and keeps it by lowliness of mind. In God alone it can rejoice, though none else regard it, or can own its life. It is conceived in sorrow, and brought forth without any to pity it; nor doth it murmur at grief and oppression. It never rejoiceth but through sufferings; for with the world's joy it is murdered. I found it alone, being forsaken. I have fellowship therein with them who lived in dens and desolate places of the earth, who through death obtained this resurrection and eternal holy life.

Thou wast with me when I fled from the face of mine enemies: then didst Thou warn me in the night: Thou carriedst me in Thy power into the hiding-place Thou hadst prepared for me: there Thou coveredst me with Thy Hand that in time Thou mightst bring me forth a rock before all the world. When I was weak Thou stayedst me with Thy Hand, that in Thy time Thou mightst present me to the world in Thy strength in which I stand, and cannot be moved. Praise the Lord, O my soul. Let this be written for those that come after. Praise the Lord.

 

Kenneth Boulding’s Nayler Sonnets:

23. For with the world’s joy it is murdered

I will not shout for victory, nor praise

The bloody laurels of returning hosts

Above the throaty cries I conjure ghosts

Of slain to pave the ceremonial ways.

And neither will I mourn defeated days,

When the stiff pomp that martial grandeur boasts

Cracks into chaos on forsaken coasts,

And the balk, craven bead is stripped of bays.

Not with the world’s joy will I raise my heart,

Nor with the world’s grief bow it down to dust;

I will not sell it in an earthly mart,

For every earthly love is kin to lust.

The living soul must find securer worth

In grief of Heaven than in joy of earth.

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