Classic Poem

I Own I love; 'tis no uncomely fire
That kindles in my breast intense desire:
I hate myself that yet I love no more;
And yet I more than love; for I adore.
'Tis not just features, sparkling eyes, or air,
That makes the object I admire so fair:
'Tis one exploded for deformity
By others, has ten thousand charms for me.
'Tis not the lilly damask'd with the rose,
That does these bonds upon my soul impose:
Whom others in the vilest terms deride,
I lovelier think than all the world beside.
Myriads of hearts, should they to love conspire,
Can ne'er enough this lovely one admire.
Whoever has an heart to give, is free;
Our happy loves shall fear no jealousy.
The more this perfect beauty shall pursue,
The more is paid to whom all hearts are due.
But would you know to whom I make these vows,
To whose victorious charms my spirit bows?
O turn your eyes to Calvary, and see
A bleeding Saviour on a cursed tree:
That languid countenance, those dying eyes,
Those trembling lips that utter doleful cries;
That fainting head with thorns incircled round,
With streams of blood for wreaths of jewels crown'd;
Those sacred hands that always grace implor'd;
Those tender feet with rugged irons bor'd;
That sacred body bruis'd, and cover'd o'er
With dying sweats, purpled with native gore;
That soul that bore th' unsufferable weight
Of a world's sins both numberless and great
See crimson streams flow from his wounded side,
To wash those very hands by which he di'd.
Behold my dying Lord, and disapprove
My choice; say, who has charms like him I love?