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UPON THE BLEEDING CRUCIFIX

A SONG

ESU, no more!

I

It is full tide;

From Thy hands and from Thy feet,
From Thy head, and from Thy side,
All the purple rivers meet.

II

What need Thy fair head bear a part

In showers, as if Thine eyes had none? What need they help to drown Thy heart, That strives in torrents of its own?

III

Water'd by the showers they bring,
The thorns that Thy blest brow encloses
(A cruel and a costly spring)

Conceive proud hopes of proving roses.

IV

Thy restless feet now cannot gobil d
For us and our eternal good,

As they were ever wont. What though? 1
They swim, alas! in their own flood.
1 What though they cannot?

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V

Thy hand to give Thou canst not lift,
Yet will Thy hand still giving be.
It gives, but O itself's the gift,

It gives though bound, though bound 'tis free.

VI

But, O Thy side, Thy deep-digg'd side,
That hath a double Nilus going:

Nor ever was the Pharoan tide

Half so fruitful, half so flowing.

VII

No hair so small, but pays his river
To this Red Sea of Thy blood;
Their little channels can deliver
Something to the general flood.

VIII

But while I speak, whither are run
All the rivers named before?
I counted wrong: there is but one;
But O that one is one all o'er.

IX

Rain-swol❜n rivers may rise proud,
Bent all to drown and overflow;
But when indeed all's overflow'd,
They themselves are drownèd too.

X

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.
Ne'er wast Thou in a sense so sadly true,
The well of living waters, Lord, till now.

I

TO THE NAME ABOVE EVERY
NAME, THE NAME OF JESUS

A HYMN

SING the Name which none can say
But touch'd with an interior ray :
The Name of our new peace, our good,
Our bliss, and supernatural blood.
The Name of all our lives and loves;
Hearken, and help, ye holy doves,
The high-born brood of Day, you bright
Candidates of blissful light,

The heirs elect of Love, whose names belong.
Unto the everlasting life of song.

All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast
Of this unbounded Name, build your warm nest.
Awake, my glory, Soul, (if such thou be,
And that fair word at all refer to thee),
Awake and sing,

And be all wing;

Bring hither thy whole self, and let me see What of thy parent Heaven yet speaks in thee.

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O thou art poor of noble powers, I see,
And full of nothing else but empty me;
Narrow, and low, and infinitely less
Than this great morning's mighty business.
One little world or two

(Alas!) will never do,

We must have store;

Go, Soul, out of thyself, and seek for more.
Go and request

Great Nature for the key of her huge chest
Of Heavens, the self-involving set of spheres
(Which dull mortality more feels than hears).
Then rouse the nest

Of nimble Art, and traverse round
The airy shop of soul-appeasing sound:
And beat a summons in the same
All-sovereign Name,

To warn each several kind

And shape of sweetness, be they such
As sigh with subtle wind

Or answer artful touch;

That they convene and come away

To wait at the love-crowned doors of this illustrious

day.

Shall we dare this, my Soul? we'll do 't and bring
No other note for 't, but the Name we sing.
Wake lute and harp, and every sweet-lipped thing
That talks with tuneful string;

Start into life, and leap with me
Into a hasty fit-tuned harmony.

Nor must you think it much

T' obey my bolder touch;

I have authority in Love's name to take you,
And to the work of Love this morning wake you.

Wake, in the Name

Of Him Who never sleeps, all things that are,
Or, what's the same,
Are musical;

Answer my call

And come along;

Help me to meditate mine immortal song.
Come, ye soft ministers of sweet sad mirth,
Bring all your household-stuff of Heaven on earth;
O you, my Soul's most certain wings,
Complaining pipes, and prattling strings,
Bring all the store

Of sweets you have; and murmur that you have no

more.

Come, ne'er to part,

Nature and Art.

Come, and come strong,

To the conspiracy of our spacious song.
Bring all the powers of praise,

Your provinces of well-united worlds can raise ;
Bring all your lutes and harps of Heaven and
Earth,

Whate'er co-operates to the common mirth;

Vessels of vocal joys,

Or you, more noble architects of intellectual noise,
Cymbals of Heaven, or human spheres,
Solicitors 1 of souls or ears;

And when you are come, with all

That you can bring or we can call:
O may you fix

For ever here, and mix

Yourselves into the long

And everlasting series of a deathless song;

1 Petitioners; the word is so used by Addison.

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