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Our Lord in His Circumcision to His Father.
Taste this, and as Thou lik'st this lesser flood,
Then let him drink, and drink, and do his worst,
And, till my riper woes to age are come,
-ound = eyes - mouths = rose &
On the Wounds of our crucified Lord. wounds
THESE wakeful wounds of Thine!
Are they mouths? or are they eyes?ouths weper Be they mouths, or be they eyne,
Each bleeding part some one supplies.
Lo, a mouth! whose full-bloom'd lips mouth bec, rose.
At too dear a rate are roses.
Lo, a blood-shot eye! that weeps
And many a cruel tear discloses.
O thou that on this foot hast laid
This foot hath got a mouth and lips,
The difference only this appears,
On our crucified Lord, naked and bloody.
O never could there garment be too good
ISE, Heir of fresh Eternity,
From thy virgin-tomb:
Rise, mighty Man of wonders, and Thy world
Thy tomb, the universal East,
Nature's new womb,
Thy tomb, fair Immortality's perfumèd nest.
Of all the glories make noon gay
This is the morn;
This rock buds forth the fountain of the streams of day;
In joy's white annals lives this hour,
When life was born,
No cloud-scowl on his radiant lids, no tempest-lower.
Life, by this light's nativity,
All creatures have;
Death only by this day's just doom is forced to die.
Throned in thy grave,
Death will on this condition be content to die.
On the bleeding Wounds of our crucified Lord.
ESU, no more, it is full tide;
From Thy head and from Thy feet, From Thy hands and from Thy side, All Thy purple rivers meet.
What need Thy fair head bear a part
Thy restless feet now cannot go,
As they were ever wont! What though
Thy hands to give, Thou canst not lift;
It gives though bound, though bound 'tis free.
But O, Thy side; Thy deep digg'd side
Nor ever was the Pharian tide
Half so fruitful, half so flowing.
Water'd by the showers they bring,
Conceive proud hopes of proving roses.*
No hair so small but pays his river
But, while I speak, whither are run
Rain-swoll❜n rivers may rise proud,
Bent all to drown and overflow;
But when indeed all's overflow'd,
This verse is not in the version of the Paris edition of 1652.
This Thy blood's deluge, a dire chance,
Dear Lord, to Thee, to us is found A deluge of deliverance,
A deluge lest we should be drown'd. intell
Ne'er wast Thou, in a sense so sadly true,
Samson to his Delilah.
RUEL, could not once blinding me suffice?
FAPPY me! O happy sheep!
Whom my God vouchsafes to keep;
That points me to these ways of bliss;