Beyond the great Atlantick flood
There is a region vast,
A country where no English foot
In former ages past:
A waste and howling wilderness,
Where none inhabited
But hellish fiends, and brutish men
That Devils worshiped.
This region was in darkness plac’t
Far off from heavens light,
Amidst the shaddows of grim death
And of eternal night.
For there the Sun of righteousness
Had never made to shine
The light of his sweet countenance,
And grace which is divine:
Until the time drew nigh wherein
The glorious Lord of hostes
Was pleasd to lead his armies forth
Into those forrein coastes.
At whose approach the darkness sad
Soon vanished away,
And all the shaddows of the night
Were turned to lightsome day.
The dark and dismal western woods
(The Devils den whilere)
Beheld such glorious Gospel-shine,
As none beheld more cleare.
Were sathan had his scepter sway’d
For many generations,
The King of Kings set up his throne
To rule amongst the nations.
— Michael “Mr. Doomsday” Wigglesworth, 1662