Classic Poem

Now , Soule suppose thou see'st these worthy Men
Laden with Linnen, and with costly Gumbes
Vnto the blessèd-cursèd Crosse to ren,
T'interre his Corps which DEATH now ouercomes:
Where being arriu'd, the Ladders vp they reare
To take Him downe, with care, surmounting Care!

See how the Infant Church (whose feeble force,
Hath scarse the strength to lift vp Hand to Head)
Vnites her powers, to take downe his Corse,
That is aliue, and yet is perfect dead:
See with what fearefull care, the Nailes they draw,
As if his Flesh yet felt, or them He saw.

What prouidence they vse with Linnen large,
Crossing his dead Corps, that to Death was Crost
That so they may the better wield that Charge,
And not, by poize, to let him fall be forc't:
See how the Body doubles in their Armes,
While Faith their loue, with feruor, double warmes.

For, Martyrs Deaths, giue life to Martyrs more,
Till DEATH be tir'd, with reauing Them of Life;
This God did die, as nere did Man before;
For, Hee by yeelding meekely, conquer'd Strife:
His Patience in such Passions, and such Spightes,
Doth Life-inspire the faith of Proselites.

It is in vaine therefore, with Sword, or Fire.
To seeke to plant a Faith which cannot growe;
For, Saints blood chokes It ere It can aspire;
And like a Deluge, doth It ouerflow!
“For, when the Church is bath'd in Her owne blood,
“She's cur'd of all Diseases, in that Flood!

Who will not runne into an Hell of Paine
For His Hopes sake; when he sees some therein
(For that same cause) to seeme in blisse to raigne;
And by that Blisse eternall Glorie winne?
“It's sport to die, when Life, and Death conspire,
“Feare to exclude, and satiate the Desire!