Out of the grave doth by the Godhead rise; A tree was first the instrument of strife, Where Eve to sin her soul did prostitute; Though ill that trunk and this fair body suit: That death to Him, this life to us doth give; Sweet Eden was the arbor of delight, Yet in his honey flowers our poison blew ; A man was first the author of our fall, A Man is now the author of our rise: A garden is the place He pays our price: Is now by one Man caught, beguiled with his own guile. The dewy night had with her frosty shade Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground Sparkled in ice; only the Lord that made All for Himself, Himself dissolved found, Sweat without heat, and bled without a wound; Of heaven and earth, and God and man forlore, Thrice begging help of those whose sins he bore, And thrice denied of one, not to deny had swore. THE JOYS OF THE REDEEMED. HERE may the band that now in triumph shines, Their sunny tents and houses luminous; All their eternal day in songs employing, Full, yet without satiety of that Which whets and quiets greedy appetite, Where never sun did rise, nor ever sat, But one eternal day and endless night How can such joy as this want words to speak? And yet what words can speak such joy as this? Far from the world that might their quiet break, Here the glad souls the face of beauty kiss, And, drunk with nectar torrents, ever hold Their eyes on Him, whose graces manifold, The more they do behold, the more they would behold. Their sight drinks lovely fires in at their eyes, Their brain sweet incense with fine breath accloys, That on God's sweating altar burning lies; Their hungry ears feed on their heavenly noise That angels sing to tell their untold joys; Their understanding, naked truth, their wills, That nothing here is wanting but the want of ills. No sorrow now hangs clouding on their brow; No nakedness their bodies doth embase; No poverty themselves and theirs disgrace; No fear of death the joy of life devours; No unchaste sleep their precious time deflowers; But now their naked bodies scorn the cold, And from their eyes joy looks and laughs at pain; The infant wonders how he came so old, The old man how he came so young again; Still resting, though from sleep they still refrain; Where all are rich, and yet no gold they owe; And all are kings, and yet no subjects know; All full, and yet no time they do on food bestow. For things that pass are past, and in this field And crimson rose a scarlet garment wears; And all of these on the saints' bodies grow, Not, as they wont, on baser earth below: Three rivers here, of milk, and wine, and honey flow. About the holy city rolls a flood Of molten crystal, like a sea of glass, On which weak stream a strong foundation stood : That all things else, besides itself, did pass. Her streets, instead of stones, the stars did pave, On which soft streaming manna like pure snow did wave. In midst of this city celestial, Where the eternal temple should have rose, End and beginning of each thing that grows; Changer of all things, yet immutable; Before and after all, the first and last; That moving all, is yet immoveable; Great without quantity; in whose forecast Things past are present, things to come are past; Swift without motion; to whose open eye The hearts of wicked men unbreasted lie; At once absent and present to them, far and nigh. It is no flaming lustre, made of light; No sweet consent, or well-tuned harmony; Ambrosia, for to feast the appetite, Or flowery odor mixed with spicery; No soft embrace or pleasure bodily; And yet it is a kind of inward feast, A harmony that sounds within the breast, An odor, light, embrace, in which the soul doth rest. A heavenly feast no hunger can consume; A light unseen, yet shines in every place; A sound no time can steal; a sweet perfume No winds can scatter; an entire embrace That no satiety can e'er unlace; Ingraced into so high a favor there, The saints with their beaupeers whole worlds outwear, Ye blessed souls, grown richer by your spoil, Whose loss, though great, is cause of greater gains; Here may your weary spirits rest from toil, HENRY KING. HENRY KING was born in 1591. He was successively chaplain to James the First, Dean of Rochester, and Bishop of Chichester. He died in 1669. An edition of his "Poems and Psalms" was published in London in 1843, with an interesting Biography by the Rev. J. Hannah, B. A. So soon grown old! hast thou been six And must I live to calculate the time To which thy blooming youth could never climb, Studied enough thy losses' history. How happy were mankind, if Death's strict laws But sacred Heaven! O, how just thou art Sprung out of my lone thoughts, which know no path |