Dies Irae

Hears't thou, my soul, what serious things
Both the Psalm and sybyll sings
Of a sure judge, from whose sharp Ray
The world in flames shall fly away.

O that fire! before whose face
Heavn and earth shall find no place.
O those eyes! whose angry light
Must be the day of that dread Night.

O that trump! whose blast shall run
An even round with the circling Sun.
And urge the murmuring graves to bring
Pale mankind forth to meet his king.

Horror of nature, hell and Death!
When a deep Groan from beneath
Shall cry we come, we come and all
The caves of night answer one call.

O that Book! whose leaves so bright
Will sett the world in severe light.
O that Judge! whose hand, whose eye
None can indure; yet none can fly.

Ah then, poor soul, what wilt thou say?
And to what Patron chuse to pray?
When starres themselves shall stagger; and
The most firm foot no more then stand.

But thou giv'st leave (dread Lord) that we
Take shelter from thy self, in thee;
And with the wings of thine own dove
Fly to thy scepter of soft love.

Dear, remember in that Day
Who was the cause thou cam'st this way.
Thy sheep was stray'd; And thou wouldst be
Even lost thy self in seeking me.

Shall all that labour, all that cost
Of love, and ev'n that losse, be lost?
And this lov'd soul, judg'd worth no lesse
Then all that way, and wearynesse?

Just mercy then, thy Reckning be
With my price, and not with me
'Twas pay'd at first with too much pain,
To be pay'd twice; or once, in vain.

Mercy (my judge) mercy I cry
With blushing Cheek and bleeding ey,
The conscious colors of my sin
Are red without and pale within.

O let thine own soft bowells pay
Thy self; And so discharge that day.
If sin can sigh, love can forgive.
O say the word my Soul shall live.

Those mercyes which thy MARY found
Or who thy crosse confes't and crown'd,
Hope tells my heart, the same loves be
Still alive; and still for me.

Though both my Prayres and teares combine,
Both worthless are; For they are mine.
But thou thy bounteous self still be;
And show thou art, by saving me.

O when thy last Frown shall proclaim
The flocks of goates to folds of flame,
And all thy lost sheep found shall be,
Let come ye blessed then call me.

When the dread ITE shall divide
Those Limbs of death from thy left side,
Let those life-speaking lipps command
That I inheritt thy right hand.

O hear a suppliant heart; all crush't
And crumbled into contrite dust.
My hope, my fear! my Judge, my Freind!
Take charge of me, and of my END.
Author of original: 
Thomas of Celano
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