manna, angel’s food, I fed them all:
Was ever grief like mine?
They part my garments, and by lot dispose
My coat, the type of love, which once cur’d those
Who sought for help, never malicious foes:
Was ever grief like mine?
Nay, after death their spite shall further go;
For they will pierce my side, I full well know;
That as sinne came, so sacraments might flow:
Was ever grief like mine?
But now I die; now all is finished.
My wo, man’s weal: and now I bow my head:
Onely let others say, when I am dead,
Never was grief like mine!
5. THE THANKSGIVING.
OH King of grief! (a title strange, yet true,
To thee of all kings onely due)
Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee,
Who in all grief preventest me?
Shall I weep bloud? why, thou hast wept such store,
That all thy body was one doore.
Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold?
’Tis but to tell the tale is told.
My God, my God, why dost thou part from me?
Was such a grief as cannot be.
Shall I then sing, skipping, thy dolefull storie,
And side with thy triumphant glorie?
Shall thy strokes be my stroking? thorns, my flower?
Thy rod, my posie? crosse, my bower?
But how then shall I imitate thee, and
Copie thy fair, though bloudie hand?
Surely I will revenge me on thy love,
And trie who shall victorious prove.
If thou dost give me wealth; I will restore
All back unto thee by the poore.
If thou dost give me honour; men shall see,
The honour doth belong to thee.
I will not marry; or, if she be mine,
She and her children shall be thine.
My bosome friend, if he blaspheme thy name,
I will tear thence his love and fame.
One half of me being gone, the rest I give
Unto some Chapell), die or live.
As for thy passion—But of that anon,
When with the other I have done.
For thy predestination, I’ll contrive,
That three years hence, if I survive,
I’ll build a spittle, or mend common waves,
But mend mine own without delayes.
Then I will use the works of thy creation,
As if I us’d them but for fashion.
The world and I will quarrell; and the yeare
Shall not perceive, that I am here.
My musick shall finde thee, and ev’ry string
Shall have his attribute to sing;
That all together may accord in thee,
And prove one God, one harmonie.
If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appeare,
If thou hast giv’n it me, ’tis here.
Nay, I will reade thy booke, and never move
Till I have found therein thy love;
Thy art of love, which I’ll turn back on thee,
Oh my deare Saviour, Victorie!
Then for thy passion—I will do for that—
Alas, my God, I know not what.
6. THE REPRISALL.
I HAVE consider’d it, and finde
There is no dealing with thy mighty passion:
For though I die for thee, I am behinde;
My sinnes deserve the condemnation.
O make me innocent, that I
May give a disentangled state and free;
And yet thy wounds still my attempts defie,
For by thy death I die for thee.
Ah! was it not enough that thou
By thy eternall glorie didst outgo me?
Couldst thou not grief’s sad conquests me allow,
But in all vict’ries overthrow me?
Yet by confession will I come
Into the conquest. Though I can do nought
Against thee, in thee I will overcome
The man, who once against thee fought.
7. THE AGONIE.
PHILOSOPHERS have measur’d mountains,
Fathom’d the depths of seas, of states, and kings,
Walk’d with a staffe to heav’n, and traced fountains:
But there are two vast, spacious things,
The which to measure it doth more behove:
Yet
