Classic Poem

We ll, now, those Women, that were fled him fro
(When Tempests rag'd) are come, the Coast being cleare,
To pay him their last Dutie, sith no mo
They shall not (as they doubt) Him see, nor heare:
NoWeu'ry one is busied, busily,
To grace Him, Dead, that for their grace did die.

Now, downe they haue this dead Life-giuing Lord,
And now, their zeale, with diuine adoration,
Performes Loues complements in deed and word:
Now, He hath suffred, now, they suffer Passion:
They spice him sweetly, with salt teares among,
And, of sad sighes they make their Obiit -Song.

O cruell hands (quoth one) that pierc'd these Hands;
But, farre more cruell heart, that gor'd this Heart;
Curst (quoth another) bee their Feet that stand
In Sinners Way, who did these Feet endart:
O (quoth a Third) Paine, still that Head suround,
That, with these cruell Thornes, this Head hath crown'd.

Infernall Furies, whip them that haue torne
This blessed Flesh, thus whipt, accursedly;
And be their Flesh, with Wants, to nothing worne,
That thus haue worne the Flesh of Deitie:
O worme of Conscience, gnaw their Soules to nought,
That still did plague his Soule, and vexe his Thought.

Let neuer Sunne recheere them with his Raics,
That Iustice Sonne haue thus in purple clowded;
Let nere Mouth ope, but spit in their dispraise,
That haue these Lips in Death's pale Liu'ry shrouded:
" Thus all like Honny-Bees sweet murmure make,
" Against those Waspes, that spoil'd their honny Cake.

Now, draw they forth their Aromaticke Gumbes
His Flesh, most sweet, to make most oderous;
See, see how, now, His Traine (late scatt'red) comes
Trooping, with drooping Hearts, most dolorous,
To Helpe t'embalme Him, and condole His death
And to consort His Carcasse to the Earth.

See how, in Peace, they striue, in Loue, contend,
To kisse, and rekisse, his gore-crusted Face;
And, with each kisse, Teares Floods their force extend
Which shall anticipate the others pace:
Loe, how they hug Him, with lowd-shaking cries,
Some, hugge his Armes, and others Legges, and Thies.

But, blest is He that hath his Head in hold,
Hee holds his hold till crowd enforce him thence;
Yet ere he parts, his kisses millifold,
Bewray his loue, and louing diligence:
And, as the Babe is loath to leaue the Dugge
Forepin'd with thirst; so, at his Lips they tugge.

Sweet Iesus , giue me leaue, in strong conceit,
Among these holy Ones, to kisse thee once;
I, as vnworthy, will their leisure waite,
With vigilant attendance for the nonce:
Though they, in loue, are not my selfe aboue,
" For, who hath most forgiu'n, most doth loue.

If not thy Lips (for, I confesse (deere Sweete)
I am vnworthy such preheminence!)
Yet giue me leaue to kisse thy sacred Feet;
And wash them with my sad Teares confluence:
Let me, with Marie , who had much forgiu'n,
(Yet I much more) make Them my highest Heau'n.

For, I (aye me) I am that Lumpe of Sinne,
That made thy Soule so heauie to the death!
I, eu'ry day, afresh thy woes begin,
Breathing out Death, to thee, with my Lifes breath:
Farre worse than he that (blind) thy Heart did gore.
For, I doe see, and yet doe wound it more!

O Christ , with thy Rod, strike my Rockie Heart,
That it may flow for Thee, as Thine for me;
O let it bleed, in pittie of thy smart,
And leaue to thinke on ought that grieueth Thee:
Bleed Heart, weepe Eies, that Blood and Water may
Wash Blood, and Water, which I spilt, away.

Sweet Honnied Sweet! looke, looke into my Heart,
See what Desires thy Loue doth pow'r therein,
Touching thy Loue; I know thou hast the Arte
To make the same, in Deed, thy Loue to winne:
Sith thy grace makes the Will, and Deed, intire,
O giue me grace to Doe, as I Desire.

And as it's written of the Elephant,
That he is fierce, to see Grapes blood diffus'd:
So let me (Wretch) become most valiant
Gainst Death, and Hell, to see thy Blood effus'd:
Who art the Grape, which pressed on the Crosse,
Yeelds wine of Life, and makes vs liue by losse.

When I behold thy still-fresh-bleeding Wounds
I see the Deed, to worke with the Desire
Of my Redemption; which, my Soule confounds
With shame, though It the same doth life-inspire:
Whose good-Deeds, by Desire, are onely done,
Though good Deeds end, what good Desires begun.

When, when, deere Lord, O when shall I, (fraile I!)
Resist to Blood, thy bloody foes resist?
When, for thy sake, shall I desire to die?
And in that deere Desire, in Deed, insist?
Till when, I hold my deer'st Desires to be
Vnworthy of thy Crosse, much lesse of Thee.

Can I behold thy Gore-rough-casted Corse,
Thine, Head, Heart, Hands, Backe, Side, Feet wounded all,
And all to free me from thy Fathers Curse;
And all I doe, is but therein to fall!
Ile trust Thy Secrecie; Hearke, in thine Eare.
I am the worst redeem'd with Blood so deere!

Then, good Desires can nere repay the Debt
Which thee I owe, by Deeds, seal'd with thy Blood;
My selfe, thy Due, I should too much forget,
To seeke to paie Thee with none other good:
For, I am Thine, Thou deerely paid'st for me
Then both my Life and Death should honour Thee.

This World, this Hellish World, doth dimme mine Eies,
(My Iudgements Eies) that they but darkly see
The way to worke, by loue, as worke the wise,
(The godly wise), whose workes tend all to Thee:
Then helpe me, Loue, to worke for Thee alone;
Meane while let me thy Passion thinke vpon.

Now doth this louing sacred Synaxie
(With diuine Orizons, and deuout Teares)
Ensindon Him with choisest Draperie;
And to the Sepulcher his Body beares:
And as they beare him step, by step, they poure
Downe showres of Teares, which winds of Sighes procure.

But ah (alasse) his Mother, all this while,
Like Niobe (as Poets faine) still sits:
All as shee did her Senses reconcile
To senslesse Death, and were in Tranced fits:
Without or Sp'rite, or Life, or Heart, or Soule,
Her violent woes her Senses so controule!

Now, Loue, to his last Home hath Him conuai'd,
That had no Hole, in Life, to hide his Head;
This Hole, in Death, shall doe what Life denai'd
Yet shall it not long hold Him beeing dead:
For, Heau'ns his Home, Earth's but the Babylon
Vpon whose Riuers bankes, He still doth moane.

Here Loue contends with Custome; Loue would keepe
His Corps without, Custome, within the Graue:
But Tyrant Custome, swaying, Loue doth weepe
That Her deere LOVE shee may no longer haue:
And, for a Fare-well, Volleys forth her Voice,
In Grones, and Sighes, and Lachrimable Noise.