Classic Poem

While that blest Body, Sauiour of each Soule,
(Whose Bodies are the Temples of his Spright)
Hung on the Crosse, by Death DEATH to controule
The Temples Vaile, Stones, Graues, Earth, Skies , and Light ,
Rent, claue, op't, quakt, and (thundring) waxt obscure,
To see LIFE dye, and Griefe theire God deuoure!

These lifelesse Bodies, wanting Soules, and Sence,
(With sense of his Soules, Soule-tormenting, smart)
Condole (prouok't by Pitties violence)
His paine (though they of paine can feele no part)
They sencelesse are, yet paines that sence exceed,
Make their obdurate sencelesse Hearts to bleede.

And wilt thou Man, Gods Image, Angells Lord,
Emperor of Earth, and all hir Brest doth beare,
Made so (in loue) by him, not him affoorde
(Seeing Him dye for thy Loue) one silly Teare?
O Aire and Earth why doe ye not conspire
To burne this Turfe, that Water wants, with Fire?

Aswell the Crosse, the Hammer, Nailes, and Speare,
Did crucifie thy Iesus, as the Iewes:
No, no, thy sinnes his Crucifiers were;
That by his death, they might their life excuse.
O Synne how sinnefull art Thou, sith thou must
Excuse thy Crymes, by crimes much more vniust.

Ist not enough the Soule quite to subuert
Wherein Thou Iiu'st, but must thou spoile Him too
Through whome the Soule doth liue, by whom Thou Art;
And so do That, that doth thy selfe vndoo?
Then, blame not Faith, thy foe to spoile thy State
When thou thy selfe, thy selfe doth dissipate.

Thinke Man (whose Feete are swifter farre then Thought
To doe what ere is opposite to Good:)
Thinke that thou seest him on his face longe straught
In Praier, and in Passion sweating Bloud:
Sith from al parts for Thee his bloud out flies,
Giue Him one Drop of Water from thine Eyes.

A Birde there is (as Pliny doth report)
That in the time of treading sweateth bloud;
This Birde, Ciconia height, sweates so in sport,
But this kinde Pellican in maestiue moode:
So that, in pleasure, sweats begetting young,
But This in Paine with sanguine sweate among.

This kinde, most kinde, Soule-sauing Emperick
His owne blood broacheth so our Soules to saue;
And for our Healths He maks his owne Heart sick,
Yea dyes: that by his Death, wee life might haue:
Then sith this blest by-parted Man-god dies
For Mans loue, Mans loue should be like likewise.

Thinke now thou seest (O ioy-griefe-breeding sight!
Ioy for his merit, griefe for his annoy)
Perditions child with Men, Swords, Staues, and Light,
The Lord of life to catch, and so destroy:
Now thinke thou seest that Reprobate by birth,
(With kisse) betray the Lord of Heau'n and Earth.

Then see, ah see, how They (Limbes of that Lord
That Lords it in Deaths gloomie Continent)
His tender hands bind with a boist'rous cord,
So strait, that straight, with rigour violent,
It seemes to cut in two those tender hands,
For, soft flesh yeelds, when such rough force commands.

And canst Thou see, (O thou thou carelesse Man
Thou worme, thou insect, slaue to base Contempt!)
Freedome thus bound for thee? if so thou can,
And yet liue loosly, th art from grace exempt:
O that the God of grace, as Man should die
For man, whose grace in loosenesse most doth lie!

Now thinke, O thinke, thou seest those hounds of hell,
(That yelp out blasphemies about their pray)
With vngraue gate, to runne doe him compell,
And with tumultuous noyse him lead away:
Ah see how He that staid the Sunnes swift course,
Through thicke and thin doth (starlesse) run perforce!

Ierusalem, O faire Ierusalem,
Figure of Heau'n, built on celestiall soyle!
Yet wast beheau'nd through blessed Bethelem,
Shall yet her heau'ns blisse in thee suffer foyle?
O be thou not ingrate, but dash to dust
(With thine owne downfall) thine owne folke vniust.

Thinke now thou seest the sonnes of Babylon
(Infernall furies) furiously present
Meekenesse it selfe, this harmelesse holy One
To Annas , high Priest, low hels President:
Where he with armes and hands (meeke lambe) stands bound,
To heare, what sense of hearing might confound.

Here Truth it selfe with Falshood fowle is charged,
To which for making mild and iust replies,
A cursed Fist on his blest face discharged
A furious buffet that enflam'd his eies:
Ah see thy God how he doth reeling stand,
With blood-shot eine by force of hellish hand.

O damned hand (fell engine of reproach)
How dar'st thou strike that awfull sacred face,
Before whose dread aspect the Heauens crouch,
Before whose Maiesties most glorious grace
The Seraphins with reuerend feare doe quake,
And all th'infernall Legions trembling shake.

What franticke fit, what rage did thee incense,
What fiend, what desperat furie made thee dare
To offer him that barb'rous violence,
That is of God the liuely Character?
Why didst not dread lest his high hand of powre
Vpon thy pate would suddaine vengeance powre?

Saw'st thou not Iustice sitting in his Front,
As well as Mercie in his eies to sit?
Did both at once thy cruell eies afront,
And yet thy heart and hand not staid by it?
Did Deitie in his face make a stand
Yet That not make thee (Diuell) hold thy hand?

Then is it cleere thy Hand is none of thine,
(Much lesse thy Heart that did thy Hand direct)
But it is Hels, and wrought Hels damn'd designe;
Or els that Grace, that Face might well protect:
Nere durst the Diuell tempt him with such force,
Then though the Fiend be selfe ill, thou art worse.

Canst thou (O tell me, tell me canst thou) Man,
With th'eie of Thought, behold this drierie sight
With dried eies? Those eies that whilome ran
With blood for thee, wilt not one drop requite?
Why should the Sunne and Moone (the Heau'ns bright eies)
Then looke on thee but as thine enemies?

Now thinke, O thinke, thou see'st (O sauage sight)
His foes inhumane hale him thence in haste
Along the streetes with clamour, rage, and spight,
To Caiphas house, where he was so disgrac't
As neuer Man, much lesse a God could be,
Yet neuer God more good to man than he!

Bound (as before) he stands, (in whom we rest)
Afront the face of that pernitious Priest;
Who, with the Scribes and Elders, there are prest
In their reproachfull slaunders to persist:
Meane while (meeke Soule) though he from guilt be cleare,
Yet stands he mute, as though he guiltie were.

See the coniuring, proud, remorcelesse Priest
Rend, in fell rage, (too like a furious fiend)
The pompous vestures of this Pithonist,
When Christ doth (vrg'd) aright his cause defend:
Whereat the rest in depth of scorne, and hate,
His diuine Truth, with taunts doe deprauate.

And to expresse the rancor of their spight,
They blindfold him, and make his face as t'were
A Drumme, to call his Foes 'gainst him to fight:
For, still a-tab'ring on his face they are:
So fast their fists doe fall as Drum-sticks, while
The Drumme doth sound Alarum to the broyle.

But that which doth all credit farre exceed,
(But that all credit to this Truth is due)
They in his louely Face (O loathsome deed!)
Doe spitting spall, or rather spalling spue!
O Heau'ns can ye'endure to see your King
More vilely vs'd than Toad or vilest thing!

O wonder! farre surmounting wonderments!
O more than most profound humilitie!
Doe they (fiends) varnish with fowle excrements,
That Face whose grace the Heau'ns doth glorifie,
And he endure it? what should we endure
When he (most pure) for vs was made s'impure?

Men if they spit doe choose the fowlest place
Where to bestow their eie-offending fleame:
Is no place fowler than his heau'nly face
To cast that filth that reaketh hellish steame?
O dongue, O dust, O heire of rottennesse,
Wilt ere be proud seeing such humblenesse!

God silent is whiles Diu Is doe spit on him;
The heau'ns are whist, whiles hell reuiles their Lord:
The measure of abuse vp to the brimme,
These hellish furies fill in deed and word:
What could Gods hate inflict since hell began
That was not heaped on this God and Man?

The wound was sore that crau'd a salue so sharpe:
The disease shamefull that fowle shame must cure:
Though Dauid healed Saul with sound of harp,
Our Dauids selfe must swoune ere health procure:
So many Sauls possest with Sathans store,
Must make the remedy exceeding sore!

O Pride! the swelling Sore that nought can swage,
But such extreame deiection of the Highest:
O Sinne! that do'st within the marrow rage,
Can nothing kill thee but the death of Christ?
O depth profound of Heau'ns iust doomes! who may
Tracke out th'Almightie in his pathlesse way?

He (patient) beares these contumelious wrongs,
So to supplant the kingdome of our pride;
He, (onely wise, knowing what to all belongs)
Knew base we were, vnlesse he should abide
Basenesse it selfe, to honour vs thereby,
And knewe we could not liue, but he must die.

Thinke now how he, that giues eternall rest,
Did restlesse passe away that hellish night;
Where Darkenesse children still did him molest,
With whatsoere his soule could most despight:
If any (forc'd by sleepe) began to nod,
Like Diuels they wake themselues by grieuing God.

There sits he blindfold, that doth all things see,
Bats flying in his face, that light doe loath;
Each one as irefull as an angrie Bee
Doe sting his blessed Soule and Body both:
O restlesse hate that rest reiects; wherefore?
Because the Lord of Rest should rest no more.

Ye heau'ns weepe out your world-enlight'ning eies;
Showre downe the Sunne and Moone in Teares of blood:
So (in grosse darkenesse) make a Deluge rise
Of Gore, to glut these furies with that flood:
For, such a bloody worke of darkenesse done
(By fiends, or furies), nere saw Moone nor Sunne!

O hell, that do'st all Cruelties surround,
Blush with bright Flames (that blacke to burne are wont)
Vntill thy faces flush, these fiends confound,
Sith thee in crueltie they farre surmount:
Light them with flames, confounding with their light,
To see the meed of their past hellish spight.

But, O fraile Muse, be not transported so
With passion past the patience of thy Christ ,
Who praies for those that thus doe worke his woe;
Then (O) doe not his praier so resist:
But he is God: but meerely Man can nere
Endure such hellish rage to see, or heare!

Kind Nature, Night ordain'd for sweet repose
To tired lymbes, and wits, through Daies turmoile;
But they the same quite opposite transpose,
And in tormenting Christ , themselues they toyle:
How can it be but, in eternall Night,
Iustice, with restlesse plagues, should them requite.

What diff'rence is betweene those Hymnes diuine
The Angels chaunt vnto his praise in heau'n,
And these discordant Notes of harsh Repine!
They are as Fame, and Shame, no lesse vneu'n:
For, Sanctum, Sanctum , sing those sacred Quires,
But, Crucifige, Crucifige , theirs.

O sweet celestiall Spirits Angelicall
Are ye not maz'd with worlds of wonderment
To see the Subiect of your Praises all
To such shame subiect, yet therewith content!
Your Tongues vnable are, though most diuine,
Such Paine and Patience rightly to define!

What temper is that heart, that is so hard
That feeling this, from bleeding yet forbeares?
What substance are those eies, that in regard
Of this distresse, dissolue not into Teares?
If Eies seeing this, melt not, and Hearts that feele,
They are not Hearts, nor Eies, but Flint, or Steele.

But harke! now Crowes and Curses interchange,
The Cocke and Peter striue to crowe, and curse
(Who should exceed) but Peter (O most strange!)
Giues Three for Two and yet he had the worse:
Were not infernall Legions and these Fiends
Ynough to vex thee Christ? but must thy friends?

Wert thou so hardie Peter in thy word,
What time, in peace, thou vowd'st with him to die?
And wert thou no lesse hardie with thy Sword
In the first fight? and, from him now wilt flie?
That Man that ouercomes must weare the Crowne;
Thou art no Man, a Wo-man put thee down.

Though All forsake Him, thou wilt neuer faile Him:
These be thy vaunts, and (vaunting) this did'st vow;
Yet thou, with griefe, do'st with his Foes assaile him,
And to a Maid, more than a Maid, do'st show
Thy woman-weakenesse, weaker than a woman,
For, better is a woman farre than no man.

Saw'st thou that Man was God? yea God and Man
In all his workes? and did He by his pow'r,
Strengthen thee Weakling (for, He all things can)
To march vpon the Seas foot-failing floore?
Saw'st thou by Reuelation, He was Christ?
And yet, for feare of his Crosse, him deni'st?

Fear'st thou that Crosse, that is the Tree of Life?
What! loath'st thou Death? and yet do'st feare to liue?
Do'st strife eschew, that is the end of strife?
Wilt thou not take, because thou wilt not giue:
Is thy Soule rationall? and yet thy Soule
Doth Reasons reason brutishly controule:

Did He in loue (O 'twas a matchlesse fauor!)
Take thee with him (more firme to make thy faith)
To see God, this God glorifie on Thabor?
And, heard'st his voyce, whom Heau'n and Earth obai th:
Say 'twas his Sonne, more bright than Sunne, thou saw'st
Yet from God, and his Sonne thy selfe withdraw'st?

Soule-wracking Rocke, (Faiths Rocke of ruine) Peter ,
Art thou for Christ his Church a fit foundation,
That in Faith, from Faith, sans Faith art a fleeter?
Tends thy faiths fleeting to Faiths confirmation?
If that stand fast, that hath so false a Ground,
It most miraculous must needs be found!

Did'st thou desire (with glorie rauished)
To Tabernacle Tabor, there to dwell?
Would'st thou in Heau'n with Christ be glorifi'd:
And not consociate him in his woes hell?
Art thou austere in life? yet, sensuall, Thou
Eschew'st the Gall, and wilt but Honie chew?

Gods Councels are his owne, therefore vnknowne;
All whose Intents no rules of Reason want;
Els, that to thee, he hath such fauour showne
What reason ist? But, God is God, I grant,
By whose Prerogatiue he may doe All,
And make thee and his firmer by thy fall.

Do'st thou esteeme it such a fowle reproach
To know that Wisdom whence all Knowledge springs?
Think'st it no shame to set such shame abroach
As cracks thy credit, and the King of Kings?
Was Grace s'inglorious found, that for thy grace,
Thou gracelesly abiur'dst him to his face?

Could they acknowledge him that were his foes,
When thou deniedst him that wert his friend?
By thy deniall they might well suppose
That he was such as (falsly) they pretend:
Weepe Peter weepe, for fowle is thine offence,
Wash it with Teares springing from Penitence.

T was time to turne His Soule-conuerting Eies
To thee peruerted Peter , reas'nlesse Man;
Lest brutish feare, which did thee (Beast) surprize,
Should make thee (as thy selfe) thy God to ban:
Can Mercies eies behold a fault so fowle,
With louing looke, and not in anger scowle?

They louing lookt; O constant Lord of Loue!
What is vile Man, that Man thou valuest so?
Must his Redemption make thy heart to proue
(Though he false-hearted be) such hels of woe?
Let Loue it selfe, this Loue alone admire,
That loues for hate, and dies through Loues desire!

Those glitt'ring Sunnes (his bright transpiercing eies)
On Peters eies, as on two Fountaines, shine;
By whose attractiue vertue Drops arise,
Then downe distill in showres of Angels wine:
Who with heau'ns hoast therefore, their tongues imploy
To praise their God, in hymnes starke drunke with ioy!

Who cannot loue, to thinke on loue so high,
That loues in Mercie, Iustice Obiects hate?
Yea, loues a Man that doth that loue defie?
Who cannot die for such loue, liues too late:
Let neuer Adams sonnes, through Eaues offence,
To God and Nature vse such violence!

This hellish Night beeing ended, then suppose
This heau'nly Day-starre led to Plutos court:
( Pilats I would say, but respect of woes
He there endur'd, made true, and false report)
Yet did this Comet cleare, make Pilate pause,
Ere doom'd him as contagious by the lawes.

In the diuine sweet features of his face,
(That might an heart of steele relent with ruth)
Pilate , no doubt, beheld a world of grace,
And well perceiu'd his Innocence and Truth:
Yet must he die, doe Pilate what he can,
And for his Iudge that Monster is the Man.

To doome to death Rights wrongers is but right
Although we wrongfully, doe deeme them so;
That's wronging Right, as Men, that haue no sight
In that which righteous God alone doth kno:
But when the Conscience cries the doome is wrong
The tongue pronounceth, Hell confound that Tongue.

Dismist by Pilate , see thy most iust Iudge
From this Iudge most vniust, led to a King
Much more vniust; loe, how Hee's forc'd to trudge
Through thicke, and thin; harke how their clamors ring
About his Eares; and, see the people flocke
To see whereat to wonder, gaze, and mocke.

To Herod come, that long had long'd to see him,
See now (as if some Iuggler he had bin,
That would shew tricks to all men that would fee him)
How he prouokes Him some trick to begin:
But, for He silent stands, and thwarts his mind
He holds Him but a Foole, and foole vnkind.

O ye great Princes little doe ye know
What wrong you doe vnto your high estate,
I insult through pompous pride, on States below,
And thinke all Fooles not frolickt with like Fate:
Ye are no Gods, and therefore know ye not
Whom ye abuse, and what may be your Lot.

This Foole, wise foole, holds Him, full wise, a foole;
And on the Mantle must, that fooles doth fit:
He learn'd his wisdome in grosse Follies schoole,
But, Wisdome on her Throne in Christ doth sit:
One seem'd, not was; the other was, not seem'd;
Yet seem'd a God indeed, though Man was deem'd.

He man was deem'd indeed, that stird vp strife,
And crost the course the wayward world still runnes:
Life was accus'd, with deadly sinne, in life;
God, was a Diuell deem'd, by Sathans sonnes:
A Diuell deem'd, or Man that had a Diuell,
But such a Man is worse, or full as euill.

But, Wrong (that wrencheth eu'ry right awry,
And doth her selfe, her selfe oft contradict)
That Supposition now doth flat denie;
And for a foole hee's tane, and nam'd, and nickt:
Had he a Diuell bin, or they as wise
As Diuels be, more smooth had bin their lies.

Here Wisdome, that baptizeth with his Sp'rit
All godly wise, is baptiz'd for a foole:
Their angers glowing heat, with this despight,
They thinke, in red-hot raging hate, to coole:
If his loue lik'd the foole, that fooles detest,
For vs poore fooles, he lik'd that he lou'd least.

O let, yea let weake Humane-wisdome vaile
Her Peacoks plumes, and make swift wing from Fame;
By this Example let her courage quaile,
And haue no heart to hurt her Honors shame:
If he whom Angels praise, and Heau'ns adore
Endure such shame, let Earth seeke fame no more.

He was accus'd, of what not? so 'twere euill;
Glutton, Wine-bibber, loath'd Samaritan,
Dam'd sinners coapesmate, one that had a diuell,
Soule-slaying Schismaticke, nor God, nor Man,
But Hatreds Hydra, bred in Stygian Poole,
And to conclude all clos'd all with the Foole.

O had I art to satisfie Desire,
(That would, with Words, throwe downe Mans pride to hell;
That would past Heauen, if it could, aspire;
And makes the Bulke with ranke ambition swell)
I would vpon this Ground, set such a Straine
As should surmount the reach of Voyce, or Braine!

Meekenesse looke on thy selfe, and blush for shame
To see thy selfe, thy selfe surpassed so:
Humilitie, low, low, stoop thy high fame,
Thou art surmounted farre, farre, God doth kno!
Thou boundlesse flood of Vertues confluence,
Thy bounds in him haue endlesse residence!

Looke Glorie on thy Lord, thy God behold.
Inuested with Contempts derided coat;
Yet see what constant Grace his face doth hold!
O earth, fraile earth, thy Props strong patience note;
And neuer lift thy selfe, thy selfe aboue
(To loue thy selfe) vnlesse this Lord to loue!

See, see, how he, in midst of all Extreames,
(The proper Place where Vertue is confin'd)
Though mad Misrule his name, with shame, blasphemes
Yet his rare patience passeth humane kind:
Which well bewraies this Man is more than man
That loues for hate, and blest, when Spight did ban!

How mute was he among so many lies,
Lowd lies (God wot) braid out by his Accusers?
How still (meeke Lambe) among so many cries
Of fowle-mouth'd hounds, his hunters, and abusers?
In few, he show'd so many Guifts of Grace,
That men might cleerely see God in his face!

God in his face! for, mong the sonnes of men
Was not a fairer, or Forme more diuine:
The Paragon of Beautie was he then,
Which, in his sacred shape, did brightly shine:
For Beautie was constraind her selfe't excell,
When shee him made faire without Parralell.

Yet could not so great grace, (Grace, great as God)
Infus'd in all his parts, protect this Man
From the most roguish Whip, and slauish Rod;
But, he must brooke them both, doe what he can:
And yet he did what none but God could doe;
Which he, they sed, did like a diuell too!

But, what will not Spight say, to worke her spight
Against what Good soere, that thwarts her will?
Shee'l call the brightest Day, the darkest Night;
And God a Diuell; Good, the cause of Ill:
For, if her Conscience once be cauteriz'd,
Shee is a very Fiend, and worse aduiz'd!

For, Rage is mad and cares not what shee doth;
And Spight, enraged, cares lesse what shee saies:
Then what's to be expected from them both?
But Words and Deeds that God, and Man dispraise:
Though God raignes ouer All, by Natures right,
Yet is He subiect to Mans hate and spight!

The Heauens Sou'raigne, is thus subiect made
To Hels damn'd vassals vilest villanie;
Yet Faith, and Reason, discreet Soules persuade,
That Hell is subiect to Heau'ns Deitie:
Then by this short account, which yet is right,
Hell is not halfe so bad as Hate, and Spight.

Yet, though they be farre worse than what is worst.
They (onely) fill the Iewes hard, hollow hearts:
From whose aboundance their tongues (most accurst)
Doe speake; and so are mou'd their other parts:
If Hate, and Spight, be curst Hearts onely mouers,
They must be Murders spightfull-hatefull louers.

These spights thus past, ensues Spight, past despight;
For, to the Piller bound, Hee's post alone:
Without one friend t'entreat, or wrongs to right;
Compast with Hearts? nay Stones, more hard than stone
For, on his virgin skin (most delicate!)
Flesh-tawing Whips engrosse the deeds of Hate!

And yet this was but Pilats fauour to him,
A fauour with a witnesse, witnesse Wounds!
Nay rather Wound; for, they, quite to vndoe him,
With wounding Stripes, each Wound, in one confounds
For, from his Heeles to Head He doth appeare
Not as a Man, but gastly Wound he were!

O Heau'ns! wrap ye the Earth with endlesse Wonder
Gaze Angels with immortall admiration!
Great Thunderer! why do'st forbeare to Thunder
And dash to dust this brasse-neckt Generation?
It well appeares th' art from all Passions free,
That are not passion'd passions such to see!

O! can the Heart of Flesh be steeled so,
Or Steele it selfe, so Admantine made
As but t' vphold the Eie to see this woe,
And Heauinesse the Heart not ouerlade?
Then may I boldly say, if so It can,
There's nothing harder than the Heart of Man!

O! that there were some new words lawf'lly coyn'd
Much more significant than currant'st words;
Or that all wofull words in one were ioyn'd;
And by that one more made, as Art affoards,
I would (though all, and more, too little were)
Make this his Plight, in colours right, appeare.

Can any Thing, that hath but feeling sense
Be so obdurate (though It feele it not
No otherwise than by Intelligence)
As not to melt away, in Passion hot,
To see these Passions? Passions call I them?
Yea so; but, yet much more than most extreame!

Romes World-commanding Nation (though prophane
Did priuiledge their People from the Rod:
Are ye (Iewes) for an holy Nation tane?
Yet whip vnholily Heau'ns holy God?
Whip him that with an yron Rod doth bray
All flesh to dust, that dare his Word gainsay!

This sight doth cloud, with care, the Heau'ns bright Eies
To see such glorie'dim'd with such disgrace:
Good-nature hardly can it selfe suffize
With Teares, to mollifie this most hard Case:
For, thus it stands, Christ (God and Man) abides
That Man, to heale himselfe, should wound His sides.

The plague for Slaues, on him these Slaues inflicts
The Whip's for Slaues, or Rogues that be vnruly:
Yet Tyrrany, that good Lawes interdicts,
On Innocence and Truth doth lay it truly:
Truely their Falshood, and their Tyrrany
Is true Idea of all villanie!

If stones did, welling, streame forth Water store,
What time meeke Moses rod had strooke the Rocke;
Then, if we see our Rocke of refuge' gore
Rent out by whips, and not our Founts vnlocke
To let out water-drops, It to condole,
Twere pittie Mercies drops should purge our Soule.

O depth past sounding! Way past finding out!
Didst thou in knowledge infinite foresee
That Man should fall, (made mutable no doubt
By thine owne hand) thus to be raiz'd by Thee?
From all Beginnings pleasure tookst in paine,
To make the Slaue for whom thy selfe was slaine?

Here Flesh lay finger on thy mouth that mumbles;
Dispute not Wisdoms will, nor Mercies pow'r;
Suffizeth thee that Grace her glory humbles
To lift, base thee, to top of Glories tow'r:
Doe thou admire in silence, This, so geason,
Because the Cause thereof surmounts thy Reason!

For, this is such a gulph of mysterie,
That Angels, Saints, nor God, as man can sound!
It's darker farre than hell to Reas'ns bright eie;
Wherein no rest nor bottome can be found:
The Sunnes ecclipse the eies of flesh annoyes;
But, Reasons eies Gods sonnes ecclipse, destroyes!

God did from all eternitie foresee
What man would doe; and, what was Christ his lot:
Then might haue chosen to haue made man Be:
And so haue spar'd Christs paines, that spar'd him not:
But, that He (knowing all) gaue way to It,
Confounds, in endlesse maze, all humane Wit!

Iustice, and Mercie, as it seemes to sense,
Were most impatient of their quiet rest;
(Sith Vertues worke, to show their excellence)
Which made deepe Mercie, Iustice high, digest!
For, other reason, Reason cannot giue,
To make Faith such a mysterie beleeue.

Had Men and Angels in their Iustice stood
Then, diuine Iustice vnimploid had bin;
And, Mercies pow'r had nere been vnderstood,
Had it not bin for most rebellious Sinne:
Then, did mans fall make resting-Mercie rise
To striue with Iustice for Gods glories prize!

Nor, wast alone for his owne glorie meere
That he did man create, or re-create;
But for mans good; that so he might appeare
(That Nothing was before) in blessed state!
For, with that Glory He could pleas'd haue bin
Which ere Worlds were, he had himselfe within!

Yet seeing Nothing, nothing can deserue;
And man, of nothing, beeing Some-thing made,
Yea, such a Some-thing, as all things doe serue,
That God is good to man, it doth persuade:
Then to the glorie of his goodnesse, Hee
Made himselfe man, for man, and man to-Bee!

And, is Gods glorie so high priz'd a thing,
That for It He his owne heart-blood will spend:
And from the height of heau'n himselfe to fling
To hell, to make his Glorie so ascend!
Then, mad are men, who for his glorie Were,
To set at naught a Thing that is so deare!

Then, what are These (what shall I call them) Iewes?
(The nam's too good, though now it's worse than ill)
What, what are they that so great grace refuse,
And in disgracing It continue still?
Hell, name thine owne; for, too poore is the diuell
To yeeld or name a Name so rich in euill!

God damn'd the Diuell for one sinfull Thought,
And, put him quite past hope the help of grace:
But, He the Iewes hath from damnation bought;
Yet still they seeke that Goodnesse to disgrace!
Then, cleere it is, the Iewes, so sold to Euill,
Are farre worse, than what's farre worse, the Diuell.

Now, thinke thou see'st this Soule of sacred Zeale,
This kindling Cole of flaming Charitie,
Disposted all in post; not for his weale,
But, for his further future miserie.
Here see the true Character of Distresse
For pitty shown to people pittilesse!

O God! what Man, this miserable Man,
Would not haue pittied? and with woe haue pin'd?
No Eies can weep, except for this they can;
Griefe comming not for This, comes out of Kind:
Then what kind are those Men that ioy at This?
No name can name them, they are so amisse!

Christs darling Gospeller mus'd that the Iewes
Ador'd not Christ , as Iesus , for his deeds:
More mai'st thou wonder (Saint) that I refuse
To doe His will, for whose amisse He bleeds:
Wonders, haue lesse force to confirme beleefe,
Than to confirme true Loue hath his true griefe.

What violence (surmounting violence)
Vail'd his high Maiestie to state so vile?
Was it not Loue in highest excellence,
Man vnto God, by Both, to reconcile?
For, God, and Man, did God, and Man accord,
Through Loue, that nere agree'd but with this Lord.

O Man! canst thou, canst thou O vnkind Man,
A moment breath, and not breath out his praise?
What! is thy mortall life but on short Span?
And wilt not loue his long loue, thy short Daies?
T'were pitty then a Gods heart blood should be
Like worthlesse water spild for louing Thee!

But looke (O Heart-diuiding dreyrie sight!)
See, see thy Iesus (O fint-hearted Iewes!)
King'd with a Crowne of Thornes (O spightfull spight!)
Of piercing Thornes, that do transpierce his Browes!
See how they mall it on, in ruthlesse rage,
That Thornes doe seeme his Braine-pan (bruiz'd) to gage!

Daughters of Sion, see King Salomon ,
Crown'd, by his Mother on his Mariage day!
Ye Sonnes of Salem, see Gods glorious Sonne,
Enrob'd with Wounds, and Blood, all goarie-gay!
All gentle Iosephs weepe, none can doe lesse,
To see your Brother brought to such distresse.

Is that Head crown'd with Thornes, vpon whose Crowne
Depends the highest Heau'ns resplendant Roofe?
By whose reuulsion It would soone fall downe,
Yet did a weake Post hold this Prop of Proofe?
Who brought this strong Alcides downe so lo?
T'was I his Deianire that seru'd him so.

Yet, Heau'nly Hercules , though plagu'd thou be,
Thy Hydra-labours will thee Deifie;
We, Pagan-Ofsprings, aye will honour Thee,
Not as a Semi , but sole God; and cry
Holy Holy, Holy, Iesus Christ ,
Lord God of Saboth, our true Eucharist!

O thou all-powreful-kind Omniparent ,
What holds thy hands that should defend thy head?
Is Sinne so strong or so Omniualent ,
That by Her pow'r, thy pow'r is vanquished?
Why, Sinne is Nothing; O! then Nothing ist
That binds thy Hands, that nothing can resist?

Thy Head all heau'nly wisdome doth containe,
(That's onely wise) and stands it with the same
To weare a Crowne that yeelds both Shame, and Paine,
And so seeme proud of Dolor, and Defame?
Art glories God, and Pleasures Soueraigne
Yet lett'st their Contraries thee to raigne?

Could not thy Head, that compasse can, what not?
Compasse Mans deere Redemption with lesse losse?
Thy wisdome neuer can be ouershot;
Then, shot the same at such a Crowne and Crosse?
O strange ambition of Humilitie,
To couet Hell, to giue Hell, Heau'n thereby!

For, what's the World, but Hell! yea, Hell at best!
Yet, for the World, He brookes these Hels of woes;
That so the World of Heau'n might be possest;
For, with his Saints, through Hell, He thither goes:
First He is Crown'd, then Crost, both with annoy;
But they are Crost, then Crown'd; and both with ioy!

But, O my Soule! to stirre, in thee deuotion,
Vpon this ground of Griefe thine Eie still fixe:
See here the King of Heau'ns Earthly promotion,
Crown'd with sharp Thornes, and made a Crucifixe;
Which (bruzing) broach His Browes; lo, for our sakes,
His Head is bruized, that should bruize the Snakes!

To King Him right, Hee's Scepter'd with a Reed;
As if his Kingdome were but like a Kex;
Then crouch they with, Haile King . Then straight, Areed ,
Who smote thee Iesus? Thus his Soule they vex:
O Bat-blind Fooles doe ye infatuate
That Wisdome that makes Wisdome gouerne Fate?

To pitty wretched Wights, orewhelm'd with dole,
An humane dutie t'is, which Men should doe:
But, to deride a poore distressed Soule,
A sauage part it is, and damned too:
Yet, such is their damn'd inhumanitie,
That they make merry with his miserie!

O Thou that do'st the Heads condecorate
Of Kings Terrestriall, with Emperiall Crownes;
Why lett'st weake Wormes thy Head dedecorate
With worthlesse Briers, and flesh-transpiercing Thornes?
It's to acquite the Pennance of our Pride
By this Poll-deed, with Blood exemplifi'd!

The Speare the Pen, his pretious Blood the Inke,
Wherewith he, Iesus , to this Deed subscrib'd;
And Consummatum est , the Seale did sinke
To our Quietus est that were proscrib'd:
Then, by that Iesus sign'd so with his Hand,
Seal'd with his Gore, we cleare discharged stand

Ah might it please thy dread Exuperance,
To write th' excript thereof in humble Hearts
And give them vs: Then by Recognizance,
Wee'l aye be bound to praise Thee, for our parts:
And if our indeuotion breake our Band,
Our little All shall rest at Thy command.

Our little All; for, all we haue's but little;
Nay, lesse than nothing; all we haue is Thine:
Wilt haue those Soules which thou in vs didst settle?
Retake them as thine owne; for, th'are diuine
Wilt haue our Bodies which thou didst create?
Then take them to thee thou true Panaret

Such forfeiture, were too too fortunate
For such vnhappie Bodies, lucklesse Soules:
Then, would we euer our Bonds violate,
Sith Freedome so their forfeiture enroules
In Booke of Life, in Heau'ns Exchequer rich,
Where we, as free, as freely would keep touch.

And thou my Soule should'st be the Antitype
Of what thou art, sith thou art Slaue to Sinne:
True Patterne of true Vertues Archetype
Then should'st thou be; and being, rest therein!
Yet resting so, that, thou shouldst euer moue
To Him, that hath so deerely bought thy loue!

That though Confusion shall dispuluerate
All that this Round Orbiculer, doth beare,
Yet, He that so doth supererogate,
Shall aye, in order, my Thanks Organs heare:
The Orbs of Heau'n shall stop, and Time shall stay;
But, they shall sound his Praise an endlesse day!

Faine would I fix my Thoughts, with these sharp Thornes,
To these sore wounds, that these sharp Thornes doe tent;
Such Sight a squemish stomacke ouerturnes,
But comforts mine, with Matter subiacent:
My Thorny sinnes, each Thornes deep Sepulture,
Doth, in Charybdises of Blood, deuoure!

For, looke how Pikes in Battailes-front are pight,
To bide the shocke of Foes, crost eu'ry way:
So through his Browes these Thornes are crossed quight
To bide the shocke of sinnes, which him affray:
These Thornes, through pierc'd (besides that is within)
Haue length enough to pierce the Head of Sinne.

But now my Soule make thou a swift regresse,
(Yet Rose-sweet is the ingresse to these Briers)
From whence, through sense thereof, thou did'st digresse,
And view, with wonder, what the Heau'n admires:
For, God that is most iealous of his honour,
For Men, most vile, endures most base dishonour!

Iustice, vniustly, for Iniustice deemed;
And scourged, crowned, wounded, prest to die:
A Worme, no Man, this God-man, for Man, seemed;
For, formelesse is diuine Formositie!
Drie Root, parcht Plant, burnt Leafe, and wither'd Flow'r,
Yet fruit It hath, that hath reuiuing pow'r!

As when bright Phebus (Landlord of the Light)
And his Fee-farmer Luna , most are parted,
He sets no sooner, but shee comes in sight:
So, when our sinnes from God had vs auerted,
The Lord of Life no sooner set in Death,
But gaue vs (Lunaticks) Lifes light beneath.

He that the Earth within His Palme includes,
And Heau'ns Embrace all-measures with His Span
A Rough-cast of thicke Gore his Body shrouds;
Then, Blood exhausted, Flesh is weake, and wan,
For, as Thornes did his Head, convulnerate:
So, Rods all round did Him excoriate!

It's pleasant to recount our Woe in Weale;
These Stripes had I deseru'd, which He endures:
These deepe Incisions, my Prides Swellings heale
Then must I ioy in counting what It cures:
" To tell the Ierkes with ioy, that ioy do bring,
" Is both a wealefull, and a wofull thing

These most Herodian -cruelties effected;
His People-pleasing Dooms-man Him presents
To Furies fell, (with hellish rage affected)
That ioy in His past Hellish Languishments;
Yet for He hop'd to point at Pitty than
In Sorrowes Map; He saith, Behold the Man!

Behold the Man, and not the God behold?
Yes Bifax , God and Man behold in Him:
His Person both those Natures doth infold;
But, Man thou see'st, but God thine Eies doth dimme:
Thine Eie is Mortall, and no mortall Eie
Can brooke the splendor of Heau'ns Maiestie!

Yet had thine Eies bin equall (though obscure)
Thou might'st haue cleerely seene this spotlesse Man
A God in Word, in Deed, in Life in Pow'r:
But hee's most blind that will not see, and can
The Earth did interpose it selfe betweene
Thee, and Gods sonne, else God thou mightst haue seene.

But what prouok'd thee, Pilate , so to rue,
His case, in case no more but Man He were?
Thou heard'st (no doubt) his Words and Works were true
Wonders, and Miracles; which made thee feare;
And, fearing, rue his Case: but Feare, nor Ruth,
Can make thee (False-heart) to acquit this Truth.

The more is thy Soules torment, by how much
The more thy soule did eie his Truth, and Pow'r;
If this Disgrace, and griefs did make thee gruch,
Thy gruching soule, thy greater Griefe procures:
If thou, vnlike thy selfe, thy selfe do'st thwart,
Thy dole dies not, when thine owne Crosse thou art

Can that cleare Element, that quencheth fire
(Although it cleare thy Hands) thy Conscience cleere?
Or quench a Soules iust (with sinne raged) ire?
No, Hypocrite, to wash th'art nere the nere:
But drops of grace, with Teares, well mixt with mone,
May pierce, with falling, the chiefe Corner Stone.

Nor can a Princes Lawes, if most vnright,
Excuse the Iudge, that iudgeth by those Lawes:
Nor Ignorance shall Guiltinesse acquite;
The Iudge must iudge his owne, and Prince his Cause:
For, if his Lawes would haue him iudge amisse,
He breakes Gods law, to keep those Lawes in this.

Then Iudges (though therefore ye be misiudg'd)
If Man, without God, make Herodian lawes,
Iudge not by them, though ye by them be iudg'd;
Sith Meanes to ill Effects, are like their Cause:
It's better die (for loue of Equitie)
Than that, by vs an Innocent should die.

But, ah (alas!) alas it is too true,
Too many Iudges of this Iron Age,
(With brazen faces) will crosse Christ anew,
For Princes loue, Rewards, and Patronage:
These, these are they, that make the World so ill;
Who make the Lawes speake as their Sou'raignes will.

How many Lands grone vnderneath this Load?
Those Patrons of Oppression so abound;
Who make an Hell, where-ere they make aboad;
And for Coyne, crost; the Crosse of Christ confound:
For, hauing got the Law into their Hands,
Make Law, for meede, crosse Christ , and Lawes commands.

All Ages had a grudge of this Disease;
But, this Age lies quite speechlesse of the same:
For, Iudgement oft is mute (for want of fees)
And fingers Things, in signe of death, with shame:
Christs Crosse him speed, that thinkes to speed in Suits
That hath but onely Liquids for these Mutes.

Many a wofull Mothers sighing Childe
Goes to the Gybbet, by their Iudge misdoom'd,
Because they had not Iudgements hands defil'd
With that wherein shee seekes to be intoom'd!
O crime of crimes! when Men must lose their breath
Not for their faults, but theirs that doome them death.

And many a Fathers, true begotten, Sonne,
Inuokes the Heau'ns, for iudgement on their Iudge;
By whom, both They and Theirs, haue bin vndone,
Either for want of giuing, or some grudge:
Who, through their Iudges fault, are lands bereft,
And oft by him hang'd afterwards for Theft.

Then can no death, nor torment be too sore
For Iudges, iudging for loue, feare, or meed;
Whose Skinnes were nall'd to Iudgement-seats of yore
That Iudges Eies, thereon, might daily feed:
For, though the Prince be good, if bad they be,
His Realme is rul'd, as nought were worse than Hee!