For God above in arms of love   doth dearly them embrace. And fills their sprights with such delights,   and pleasures in his Grace, As shall not fail, nor yet grow stale,   through frequency of use; Nor do they fear God’s favor there   to forfeit by abuse. CCXXIV. [182] For there the Saints are perfect Saints,   and holy ones indeed; From all the sin that dwelt within   their mortal bodies freed; Made Kings and Priests to God through Christ’s   dear Love’s transcendency, There to remain and there to reign   with him Eternally. A Short Discourse On Eternity. What mortal man can with a Span   mete out Eternity? Or fathom it by depth of Wit,   or strength of Memory? The lofty Sky is not so high,   Hell’s depth to this is small; The World so wide is but a stride,   comparéd therewithal. It is a main great Oce-an   withouten bank or bound, A deep Abyss, wherein there is   no bottom to be found. This World hath stood now since the Flood,   four thousand years well near, And had before enduréd more   than sixteen hundred year. But what’s the time from the World’s prime,   unto this present day, If we thereby Eternity   to measure should essay? The whole duration since the Creation,   though long, yet is more little. If placed by Eternity,   than is the smallest tittle. Tell every Star both near and far,   in Heav’n’s bright Canopy That doth appear throughout the year   of high or low degree: Tell every Tree that thou canst see   in this vast Wilderness, Up in the “Woods, down by the Floods,   in thousand miles Progress: The sum is vast, yet not so vast   but that thou may’st go on To multiply the leaves thereby,   that hang those Trees upon: Add thereunto the Drops that thou   imaginest to be In April Show’rs, that bring forth Flow’rs   and blossoms plenteously: Number the Fowls and living Souls   that through the Air do fly, The wingéd Hosts in all their Coasts   beneath the starry Sky: Count all the Grass as thou dost pass   through many a pasture-land, And dewy Drops that on the tops   of Herbs and Plants do stand: Number the Sand upon the Strand,   and atoms of the Air; And do thy best on Man and Beast,   to reckon every Hair: Take all the Dust, if so thou lust,   and add to thine Account: Yet shall the Years of Sinners’ tears,   the Number far surmount. Naught join’d to nauglit can ne’er make aught,   nor Cyphers make a Sum; Nor things finite, to infinite   by multiplying come: A Cockle-shell may serve as well   to lade the Ocean dry As finite things and reckonings   to bound Eternity. Oh happy they that live for aye,   with Christ in Heav’n above! Who know withal that nothing shall   deprive them of his love. _Eternity, Eternity!_   Oh! were it not for thee, The Saints in bliss and happiness   could never happy be.