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Absents within the line conspire, and sense
Things distant doth unite;
Herbs sleep unto the East, and some fowles thence Watch the returns of light.
But hearts are not so kind: false, short delights Tell us the world is brave,
And wrap us in imaginary flights
Thus Lazarus was carried out of town;
By distance all good objects first to drown,
But I will be my own death's-head; and though
Because incertainties we cannot know,
Be sure not to believe.
My soul, there is a countrie
There, above noise and danger,
Sweet peace sits crown'd with smiles,
And one born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gracious friend
To die here for thy sake.
Thy fortresse, and thy ease.
O MY chief good!
My dear, dear God!
When thy blest bloud
Did issue forth forc'd by the rod,
What pain didst thou
Feel in each blow!
How didst thou weep,
In thy own precious, saving teares!
What cruell smart
Did teare thy heart!
How didst thou grone it
O thou, whom my soul loves and feares!
Most blessed Vine!
Whose juice so good
But thy faire branches felt as bloud,
How wert thou prest
To be my feast!
What springs of sweat and bloud did drown thee!
How in one path
Did the full wrath
Of thy great Father
Doubling thy griefs, when none would own thee!
How did the weight
Of all our sinnes,
And death unite
To wrench and rack thy blessed limbes!
How pale and bloudie
How bruis'd and broke
How meek and patient was thy spirit!
How didst thou cry,
And let them live!
I dye to make my foes inherit!"
O blessed Lamb!
That took'st my sinne,
How shall thy dust thy praises sing?
I would I were
One hearty teare!
Thee two small mites, and be at strife
My heart or eye,
To weep, to sing, thy death, my life.
AND DO THEY SO?
Rom. viii. 19.
Etenim res creatæ exerto capite observantes expectant revelationem filiorum Dei.
AND do they so? have they a sense
Can they their heads lift, and expect,
Go, go; seal up thy looks,
I would I were a stone, or tree,
Or some poor highway herb, or spring To flow, or bird to sing!
Then should I, tyed to one sure state, All day expect my date.
But I am sadly loose, and stray
A giddy blast each way:
Sometimes I sit with thee, and tarry
Others, whose birth is in the tomb,
And cannot quit the womb,
O let not me do lesse! Shall they
With fancies, friends, or newes?