II. Absents within the line conspire, and sense Herbs sleep unto the East, and some fowles thence Watch the returns of light. But hearts are not so kind: false, short delights And wrap us in imaginary flights III. 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. PEACE. 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. THE PASSION. I. 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, And thyself steep In thy own precious, saving teares! What cruell smart Did teare thy heart! How didst thou grone it In the spirit, O thou, whom my soul loves and feares! II. Most blessed Vine! Whose juice so good I feel as wine, But thy faire branches felt as bloud, To be my feast! In what deep anguish Didst thou languish! What springs of sweat and bloud did drown thee! How in one path Did the full wrath Of thy great Father Crowd and gather, Doubling thy griefs, when none would own thee! III. How did the weight Of all our sinnes, And death unite To wrench and rack thy blessed limbes ! How pale and bloudie Lookt thy body! How bruis'd and broke With every stroke! How meek and patient was thy spirit! How didst thou cry, And grone on high, "Father, forgive, And let them live! I dye to make my foes inherit!" IV. O blessed Lamb! That took'st my sinne, That took'st my shame, How shall thy dust thy praises sing? One hearty teare! Then would I bring Thee two small mites, and be at strife My heart or eye, In smiles and tears To weep, to sing, thy death, my life. AND DO THEY SO? Rom. viii. 19. Etenim res creata exerto capite observantes expectant revelationem filiorum Dei. AND do they so? have they a sense Of ought but influence? Can they their heads lift, and expect, They were all dull and dead; They judg'd them senslesse, and their state Go, go; seal up thy looks, And burn thy books! II. I would I were a stone, or tree, Or some poor highway herb, or spring 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: Thou canst not change. III. Sometimes I sit with thee, and tarry Some rise to seek thee, and with heads Erect peep from their beds; Others, whose birth is in the tomb, And cannot quit the womb, Sigh there, and grone for thee, IV. O let not me do lesse! Shall they |