Dear Lord! restore thy ancient peace, Thy quikning friendship, man's bright wealth! And, if thou wilt not give me ease From sicknesse, give my spirit health! PALM-SUNDAY. COME, drop your branches, strow the way, Plants of the day! Whom sufferings make most green The King of grief, the Man of sorrow, Weeping still like the wet morrow, Your shades and freshness comes to borrow. Put on, put on your best array; Or secret groves, keep the high-way. Trees, flowers, and herbs; birds, beasts, and stones, That since man fell expect with groans To see the Lamb, come all at once, Lift up your heads and leave your moans! Whose death will be Man's life, and your full liberty. Hark! how the children, shrill and high, Hosanna cry; Their joys provoke the distant skie, Such yong, sweet mirth Joyn in a joyful symphony. The harmless, yong, and happy ass, Dear feast of palms, of flowers and dew! Whose fruitful dawn sheds hopes and lights; Thy bright solemnities did shew, The third glad day through two sad nights. I'll get me up before the sun, I'll cut me boughs off many a tree, And all alone full early run To gather flowers to wellcome thee. Then, like the palm, though wronged I'll bear; I will be still a childe, still meek As the poor ass, which the proud jear, And onely my dear Jesus seek. Zech. ix. 9. If I lose all, and must endure The proverb'd griefs of holy Job, I care not, so I may secure But one green branch and a white robe. JESUS WEEPING. St. Luke, xix. 41. BLESSED, unhappy city! dearly lov'd, But still unkinde! Art this day nothing mov'd? Dear Jesus, weep on! pour this latter This land, tho' with thy heart's blest extract fed, Will nothing yield but thorns to wound thy head. THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS. St. Matthew, xiv. 6, &c. VAIN, sinful art! who first did fit What fires hath he heap'd on his head! Leave, then,* yong sorceress; the ice But thou hast pleas'd so well, he swears, Skilful inchantress! and true bred! * Her name was Salome. In passing over a frozen river, the ice broke under her, and chopt off her head. † Herod Antipas. JESUS WEEPING. St. John, xi. 35. My dear, Almighty Lord! why dost thou weep? Repeated sighs thy kinde heart pain? Can make man's dead and scatter'd bones O holy groans! groans of the Dove! Dew of the dead! which makes dust move Should not thy sighs refrain thy store In one at one time, as some feign. Dear Lord! thou art all grief and love; But which thou art most, none can prove. |