Regarding the poetics of "butts" and "tuns," how about the last four stanzas of the Rev. Edward Taylor's Meditation 1.10 (1684; on John 6.55, "My Blood is Drinke indeed")? Out on the frontier of Massachusetts, Taylor was an unusual Puritan. His verse can startle scholars steeped in the English Puritanism of John Milton. Here Taylor meditates on the communion wine:

This Liquour brew'd, thy sparkling Art Divine
Lord, in thy Chrystall Vessells did up tun,
(Thine Ordinances,) which all Earth o're shine
Set in thy rich Wine Cellars out to run.
Lord, make thy Butlar draw, and fill with speed
My Beaker full: for this is drink indeed.

Whole Buts of this blesst Nectar shining stand
Lockt up with Saph'rine Taps, whose splendid Flame
Too bright do shine for brightest Angells hands
To touch, my Lord. Do thou untap the same.
Oh! make thy Chrystall Buts of Red Wine bleed
Into my Chrystall Glass this Drink-Indeed.

How shall I praise thee then? My blottings Jar
And wrack my Rhymes to pieces in thy praise.
Thou breath'st thy Vean still in my Pottinger
To lay my thirst, and fainting spirits raise.
Thou makest Glory's Chiefest Grape to bleed
Into my cup: And this is Drink-Indeed.

Nay, though I make no pay for this Red Wine,
And scarce do say I thank-ye-for't; strange thing!
Yet were thy silver skies my Beer bowle fine
I finde my Lord, would fill it to the brim.
Then make my life, Lord, to thy praise proceed

For thy rich blood, which is my Drink-Indeed.

-- Jon

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