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A man was first the author of our fall,
A Man is now the author of our rise:
A garden is the place He pays our price:
And the old serpent, with a new device, Hath found a way himself for to beguile; So he, that all men tangled in his wile, Is now by one Man caught, beguiled with his own guile.
The dewy night had with her frosty shade
Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground
All for Himself, Himself dissolved found,
Sweat without heat, and bled without a wound; Of heaven and earth, and God and man forlore, Thrice begging help of those whose sins he bore, And thrice denied of one, not to deny had swore.
THE SAVIOUR'S FUNERAL.
But long he stood, in his faint arms upholding
The fairest spoil heaven ever forfeited, With such a silent passion grief unfolding,
That, had the sheet but on himself been spread,
He for the corse might have been buried;
At length (kissing his lips before he spake,
As if from thence he fetched again his ghost,)
“Ah, woeful soul! what joy in all our coast,
Once didst thou lose thy son, but foundst again;
Where'er, dear Lord, thy shadow hovereth,
Blessing the place wherein it deigns abide, Look how the earth dark horror covereth,
Clothing in mournful black her naked side,
Willing her shadow up to heaven to glide,
See how the sun in day-time clouds his face,
And lagging Vesper, loosing his late team, Forgets to heaven to run his nightly race;
But, sleeping on bright Eta's top, doth dream
The world a Chaos is; no joyful beam
And you, sweet flowers, that in this garden grow,
Whose happy states a thousand souls envy, Did you your own felicities but know,
Yourselves up-plucked, would to his funeral hie
You never could in better season die:
Are these the eyes that made all others blind?
Ah! why are they themselves now blemished ? Is this the face in which all beauty shined ?
What blast hath thus his flowers debellished ?
Are these the feet that on the watery head
One hem but of the garments that He wore
Could medicine whole countries of their pain ;
One word of these cold lips revive the slain.
Well the blind man thy Godhead might maintain.
Was it because Thou gavest their blind men eyes?
Or for Thou healedst their sick men's maladies?
Or madest their dumb to speak, and dead to rise?
That through the rock heaves up his sandy head,
Whose hollow root and baser parts are spread
On fleeting waters, in his bowels bred,
The love in which I once did love, I loathe;
Both love and life, I do despise you both.
Oh! that one grave might both our ashes clothe!
On Him that sorrow now no more shall see;
To Him that died to live, and would not be,
This heavenly earth; here let it softly sleep,
But at the grave they left their souls behind.
That can the chains of nature's self unbind,
Sending the body home without the mind ! Ah! blessed Virgin! what high angel's art Can ever count thy tears, or sing thy smart, When every nail that pierced his hand did pierce thy heart ! So Philomel, perched on an aspen sprig,
Weeps all the night her lost virginity, And sings her sad tale to the merry twig
That dances at such joyful misery ;
Nor ever lets sweet rest invade her eye;
Her yet unfeathered children (whom to save
Which from the meadow her green locks doth shave,
That their warm nest is now become their grave;
THE JOYS OF THE REDEEMED.
Here may the band that now in triumph shines,
And that (before they were invested thus,)
Pitch round about, in order glorious,
All their eternal day in songs employing,
Full, yet without satiety of that
Which whets and quiets greedy appetite, Where never sun did rise, nor ever sat,
But one eternal day and endless night
Gives time to those whose time is infinite-
How can such joy as this want words to speak?
And yet what words can speak such joy as this? Far from the world that might their quiet break,
Here the glad souls the face of beauty kiss,
Poured out in pleasure on their beds of bliss;
Their sight drinks lovely fires in at their eyes,
Their brain sweet incense with fine breath accloys, That on God's sweating altar burning lies;
Their hungry ears feed on their heavenly noise
That angels sing to tell their untold joys;
No sorrow now hangs clouding on their brow;
No bloodless malady empales their face; No age drops on their hairs his silver snow;
No nakedness their bodies doth embase;
No poverty themselves and theirs disgrace;