Thomas Traherne (1636 or 1637 – ca. 27 September 1674 / England)

Unto the spring of purest life
Aspires my withered heart,
My soul confined in this flesh
Employs both strength and art,
Working, struggling, suing still
From exile home to part.
…
Where all the saints themselves shall shine
As bright as brightest sun,
In fullest triumph crowned they
To mutual joys shall run,
And safely count their fights and foes
When once the war is done.

For being freed from all defect
They feel no fleshly war,
Or rather both the flesh and mind
At length united are,
For joying in so rich a peace
They can admit no jar.

Who know the Knower of all things,
What can they choose but know?
They all behold each other's hearts,
And all their secrets shew;
One act of will and not of will
From all their minds do flow

Though all their merits diverse be
According to their pains,
Yet love doth make that every one's
Which any other gains,
And all which doth belong to one
To all of them pertains.

O King of kings, give me such strength
In this great war depending,
That I may here prevail at length
And ever be ascending,
Till I at last arrive to Thee
The source of all felicity!