Classic Poem

My thoughts amaz'd, I knowe not how, of late
Halfe in a slumber and more halfe a-sleepe;
My troubled senses at a strange debate
What kind of care should most my spirit keepe;
Methought I sawe a silly woman weepe,
And with her weeping, as it seem'd, so pleas'd
As if her heart had with her teares beene eas'd.

The place neere where she sate, was like a graue
But all vncouer'd and the bodie gone;
Where in her care she nothinge seem'd to craue
But that stolne bodie how to looke vpon
When weeping so, appear'd to her anon
Two blessed angels and one Lord of blisse
Who came to comfort this poore wretch of His.

But ere they came how she in bitter teares
Bewail'd the losse, or lacke of her deere loue;
As to her words my vision witnesse beares,
And my remembrance may for truth approoue;
The whole discourse her passions seem'd to moue;
In heart's deepe griefe and soule's high ioy conceiued
Was as I write were not my thoughts deceiued.

If euer sorrow in a sinner's hart.
Liu'd to distill those droppes of bitter teares
That to the world in passions can impart,
Part of that paine the troubled spirit beares.
Smoothing the woes wherein all pleasure weares;
Oh let her shewe the deepest of her skill
In drawing out the essence of mine ill.

The losse of health the heart may somewhat craze;
The losse of wealth distemper may the minde;
The losse of honour is a fearefull maze;
The losse of freends, a care of greeuous kinde;
But all these woes vpon one heart to winde,
Were much to thinke but much more to beleeue;
How it could liue whom farre more crosses greeue.

But from the bagge of naked pouertie
To haue more wealth then all the world can giue;
And from the care of all calamitie.
In all the comfort of content to liue,
Where settled ioy all greefe away doth driue;
And sodenly growe sicke and poore againe,
Who can conceiue the plague of such a paine?.

I wretched I the out-cast of all grace,
And banisht for my sinne from heauenly blisse;
I that to hell did headlong runne my race
Not caring how my soule was led amisse,
While I was consoned, by the Serpent's hisse;
I caitiffe wretch, of all the world the worst,
By Sinne's iust doome to endlesse sorrow curst.

I, wretched soule, whome sinne had bared so,
As left me naked of all Nature's grace;
I sinke of sinne and also full of woe
As knew not how in heauen to haue a place;
And in the depth of all this desperate case
To be relieu'd, and cloth'd, grac't and belou'd
And on the sodaine from all these remou'd.

To lose the vesture of that Vertue's grace
That cloth'd my naked soule, asham'd of sinne;
To lose the beautie of that blessed Face,
Where mercie's loue did comfort's life beginne;
To lose the ioyes that heauens were glad to winne;
To lose the life of such a louely Freend,
Oh let me weepe and neuer make an end.

The child that hath his father deerely louing,
Who sees his faults and greatly doth abhorre them:
Yet so from wrath will haue his thoughts remoouing
As he will neither checke, nor chide him for them,
But puts them backe while Pitie stands before them;
And doth not onely all his faults forgiue
But makes him kindely in his grace to liue.

That happie child, that in his heart hath felt
The blessed life of such a father's loue;
Thinke how his heart must needes in sorrow melt
That must the losse of such a father prooue,
And curse the death doth such a life remooue;
And as a creature in all comforts freendlesse,
Bleede out his time in teares of sorrow endlesse.

That wicked child of too much ill am I,
That had a Father held me all too deere;
Who from my sinnes, did turne His angrie eye
And on my sorrow shew'd a smyling cheere,
And to His grace did take my soule so neere,
And when asham'd to come His face before.
He sayd but this. Take heede thou sinne no more.

My sinnes forgiuen, what ioy my soule receiu'd
None can expresse but the repentant heart;
Nor can that sorrow euer be conceiu'd,
To see that Father from that child depart:
But in that soule that in the bitter smart
Of the true feeling of that Father's loue,
Had rather death then His departure prooue.

The carelesse seruant that the goods misspends
Which his kind Maister to his trust committeth:
And his neat house to theeues and varlets lends,
And cares for nought but what his humour fitteth;
That gracious Lord that all such faults remitteth,
And in His goodnesse doth so deerely loue him,
That from His fauour nothing shall remooue him.

So ill a seruant that doth finde the loue
Of such a Lord, as neuer like was found:
And in the midst of all his ioy must prooue
The death to see his comfort all a-ground,
His blessed Lord by theeues and varlets bound;
Scoft scourg'd and beaten, sorrowing, sighing, dying
How can that seruant cease continuall crying?

That wicked seruant wretched wretch am I:
That louing Maister was my liuing Lord;
Whose gratious giftes abus'd vngratiously,
Whose house, — my soule, — fowle spirits laide aboard
Filld full of sinnes, of graces all abhord:
Yet for all this and all that I could doe.
My Lord forgaue me and did loue me too.

He cleans'd my soule from all my filthy sinne
And with my teares did wash it cleane againe;
Draue out the feends and kindly entred in,
With grace to heale that sorrow would haue slaine:
And in His loue, did so my teares retaine
That euerie droppe that fell vpon His feete
Vnto my soule did giue a heauenly sweet.

Now such a Maister as was neuer such;
So good vnto a seruant, none so ill:
So much abus'd, abuses oh too much;
A cursed crue, to worke their bellish will
Like rauening woolues a silly lambe to kill,
Foule darknesse so to gouerne ouer light.
Who would not weepe to death at such a sight?

A sorrie Sister that hath such a brother
As for her loue would venture losse of life,
And her vnkindnesse so in kindnesse smother
As twixt their loues should kill all cause of strife,
Though her ill course were His heart's cutting knife;
To see that Brother lose His liuing breath.
How can that sister choose but weepe to death?

That sister I, that Brother was my Lord,
Who in His loue laide downe His life for me
Whose death, oh crosse of crosses to record
Ah wretch that euer I was borne to see:
Though by His death my life must onely be
To lose a father, maister, brother such;
Child, seruant sister how can I weep too much?

Shame bad me weepe ynough to see how sinne
Besmeered had my soule with ougly spottes,
And weepe to feele how I was feltred in
The wretched snarles of wicked nature's knots,
And weepe to looke vpon those loathsome blots
That fild me so with greefe of all disgrace
I durst not see my Sauiour in the face.

At Whose sweete feete I kneeling wept with feare
I had offended to presume so neere,
But sinne so fled away at euerie teare
That grace beganne my heauie heart to cheere:
When my deere Lord sayd not, What dost thou here?
Or get thee hence, or like a dogge outspurne mee,
But from my sinne vnto His mercie turne me.

He felt my teares, though no man heard my weeping,
And gaue me grace, though no man for me mou'd Him:
Which made me know He had my soul in keeping,
Though sinne too long too far from me remou'd Him
For sinne once fled, how deare in soule I lou'd Him
His words can witnesse that my soule did tuch
" Much is forgiuen her for she loued much".

He loued much that me so much forgaue:
Such my Forgiuer how much should I loue?
Forgaue my sinnes and from the Feend did saue
My wounded soule that could no comfort prooue
Till grace and mercie did my greefe remooue.
But when I felt my paine of sinne once past
In Mercie's grace, I wept with ioy as fast.

But oh my soule, vnworthy of this sweete,
Could not enioy these ioyfull teares too long:
For sinne and sorrow did so soundly meete,
As made my-heart to sing another songe
When I beheld the too apparant wronge,
My Lord, my Loue, my Life, my King and God
For my poore soule and for my sinnes abode.

To see the Lambe that bleated but our blisse
Brought all by woolues unto a bleeding end:
To see that cruell shamefull death of His
Who did His course but for our comfort bend
And held our foe that was our deerest Freend:
Who did such good and to receiue such ill,
Weepe heart to death and die in weeping still.

Vngratefull wretches, worthlesse of al grace
Rebellious subiects, traytours to your King;
Could yee behold His workes before your face
What choise of good His charitie did bring?
And froMyour hearts could so much venom springe
As with the Lord of Peace to stirre such strife,
To seeke His death. Who onely gaue you life?

Slaues, dogges and diuels, worse if I could call yee
That so haue showne the malice of your mindes
I cannot wish more ill then shall befall yee,
That are the impes of such accursed kindes,
As ougly Sathan with illusions blindes:
I weepe not for your sorrow, but to see
That all yee did not die to set Him free.

And better had it beene for yee to die
Then haue been borne to bringe Him to His death;
And by your deeds to die eternally
Or liue in death within the hell beneath,
Where neuer ayer shal breath you wholesome breath:
But by your choice of torments make you know
What yee haue done to breede my weeping so.

Alas, what sinne but did my soule possesse?
But that accursed crucifying sinne,
That would not let your wicked soules confesse
His glorious grace where grace did first beginne
By true desert, all glorie due to winne;
And by such grace did winne my soule so to Him:
My death were sweete if it might seruice doe Him.

Oh that my teares kept number with my sinnes
Or that my sinnes were drowned in my teares;
Then should my weeping shew how ioy beginnes
In faithfull heart, where fearefull sorrow weares,
And comfort's blisse so much contentment beares
That hope shold shew that halfe a heauen doth win;
Better to weepe in grace then laugh in sinne.

But what speake I of either sinne or grace?
My sinne's too greeuous and my grace is gone;
My life is dead, the earth is all too base,
For my loue's Lord, to deigne to looke vpon,
Where liues not one good creature, no not one.
And what should I but weepe to liue to see
I cannot see where my sweete Lord may be.

But since mine eyes haue liued to behold
The heauenly substance of my life and loue
Wherein my faith doth gratiously vnfould
The onely blessing of my soule's behoue
All for the glorie of the heauens aboue,
Why should I liue and looke vpon the light?
Now I haue lost the ioy of such a sight.

No, I doe hope my darkenesse will not hold,
The night will passe and sunne againe will shine;
Although my heart in comfort be a-cold
My soule doth tell me that these teares of mine
Shall all be dri'd vp by His hand diuine;
Who so will cure me of my sinfull sore
That I shall ioy in grace and weepe no more.

But He is gone my spirit's onely sweete
And I am left a wretched sinner heere;
Oh that my teares could with my comfort meete
And I might see my sauing health so neere
As with his sight my heauie heart might cheere:
Then should I loue mine eyes for such a seeing
Without which sight the ioy not in their being.

Let me then seeke where I may hope to see
The onely substance of my ioying sight;
And neuer rest nor euer wearie be
Vntill I come vnto that starre of light,
Which may direct my heart and spirit right,
Vnto that place where gracious loue will show
My soule His presence that it loueth so.

To clime to heauen it is too high a place:
Sinne weighes me downe too low to seeke Him there:
For hell it is vnworthy of such grace
And for the world, my sorrow witnesse beare
It is not worthy of His name to heare:
Then since nor heere nor there, without all doubt
Within the graue I must goe seeke Him out.

Oh ground more gracious then the world besides
Which do'st enclose that all the world commaundes:
And blessed earth that in thy center hides
His corpse for Whom my weeping soule demaunds:
Tell me, oh heauens into what holy handes
'He is conuey'd, and where He now may be
Whom thus my heart with teares desires to see?

Thus weeping still two angels did appeare
Who as it seem'd, desirous for to know
The monefull cause of this her mourning cheere
Wherefore she wept and what she sought for so:
Briefely she thus her greefe beganne to shewe
(Wringing her hands with many a bitter teare)
Her Lord was stolne and laid she knew not where.

Oh blessed angels, blessed as yee be,
Tell me where is my highest blisse become?
Your Lord and mine oh tell me where is He,
May cheere the heart that sorrow doth benumme;
Starue not my teares, vouchsafe my soule one crumme
Of comforts care, to let me truely know
Where is my Lord that I lament for so.

But doe yee aske me Whom I seeke for so?
Or why I weepe? Because I cannot finde Him
Oh heauenly creature helpe my soule to knowe
But where He is that I may come behinde Him,
That He may know but how my loue doth mind Him:
If dead I may vnto His tombe restore Him,
And if aliue I may on knees adore Him.

Oh happie Gardiner of this holy ground
Blest art thou borne if thou hast liu'd to see
That blessed bodie where it may be found
That here lay buried: tell me (if thou be
Sent from my Lord, to come and comfort me)
Who hence hath stolne the substance of my blisse
And where bestowed that holy corps of His.

But doe you aske me why I weepe so much?
And what I seeke? I seeke my soules delight:
And weepe because I finde not any such
As can direct me to so sweete a sight:
This is the cause of my heart's heauie plight
Oh tell me then, and put me out of doubt,
Dead or aliue where I may finde Him out.

Thus while her eyes continuall weeping kept,
Came Christ Himselfe although a while vnknowne:
Who askt her what she sought and why she wept:
She as before vnto the angels showne,
Began in teares to make her pitious mone:
Her Lord was stoln and borne she knew not whither
But if He knew He would direct her thither.

But while the Lord of all her life and loue
Beheld her teares, the witness of her truth,
To make her faith in heauenly fauour prooue
The sweete reward of Mercie's sacred ruth
And know what life of such a loue ensueth,
Spake but one word, but that word was so sweete
As would haue made her soule to kisse His feete.

Marie, quoth He, — Oh Maister! blessed voice,
From which my heart receiues so sweet a sound
As makes my soule in rauisht ioy reioyce,
To thinke to liue that I my Lord haue found:
Oh let my sinnes be in my teares so drown'd
That in my ioyes my soule be euer weeping,
To haue Thy presence in my comfort's keeping.

I will not presse one foote beyond the line
Of Thy Loue's leaue; vouchsafe me but a looke
Of that sweet heauenly holy eye of Thine,
Of my deere Loue the euer-liuing Booke:
Wherein my teares haue such true comfort tooke
That let the world torment me nere so sore
Let me see Thee and I desire no more.

Oh, sight more pretious then tongue can expresse
Wherein the eye doth comfort so the heart.
The heart the soule and all in their distresse
Doe find an ease and end of euerie smart,
When ele and heart and soule and euerie part
Conclude in ioy that comfort did beginne;
Better to weepe in grace then laugh in sinne.

And with that word, she vanisht so away
As if that no such woman there had beene,
But yet methought her weeping seem'd to say
The spirit was of Marie Magdalen;
Whose bodie now, although not to be seene
Yet by her speech it seemed it was she,
That wisht all women might such weepers be