VII. Yea let my life & me And at the Humble foot Of this fair TREE take our eter[n]all root. That so we may At least be in loves way; And in these chast warres while the wing'd wounds flee My brest may catch the kisse of some kind dart, VIII. O you, your own best Darts Hail; & strike home & make me see Come wounds! come darts! Nail'd hands! & peirced hearts! Come your whole selves, sorrow's great son & mother! Of greifes his portion, who (had all their due) IX. Shall I, sett there So deep a share (Dear wounds) & onely now In sorrows draw no Dividend with you? I[f] not more soft, mine eyes! Flow, tardy founts! & into decent showres And if thou yet (faint soul!) deferr To bleed with him, fail not to weep with her. X. Rich Queen, lend some releife; To'a heart who by sad right of sin Could prove the whole summe (too sure) due to him. By all those stings Of love, sweet bitter things, Which these torn hands transcrib'd on thy true heart To study him so, till we mix XI. O let me suck the wine So long of this chast vine Till drunk of the dear wounds, I be A lost Thing to the world, as it to me. Of me & of my end! Fold up my life in love; and lay't beneath Lo, heart, thy hope's whole Plea! Her pretious Breath اضي J UPON THE BLEEDING CRUCIFIX A SONG. I. Esu, no more! It is full tide. From thy head & from thy feet, From thy hands & from thy side II. What need thy fair head bear a part III. Thy restlesse feet now cannot goe As they were ever wont. What though? IV. Thy hands to give, thou canst not lift; Yet will thy hand still giving be. It gives but ô, it self's the gift. It gives though bound; though bound 'tis free. V. But ô thy side, thy deep-digg'd side! VI. No hair so small, but payes his river. Their little channells can deliver VII. But while I speak, whither are run All the rivers nam'd before? I counted wrong. There is but one; But ô that one is one all ore. VIII. Rain-swoln rivers may rise proud, IX. This thy blood's deluge, a dire chance Dear LORD to thee, to us is found A deluge of Deliverance; A deluge least we should be drown'd. N'ere wast thou in a sense so sadly true, The WELL of living WATERS, Lord, till now. |