O, costly intercourse

Of death's, and worse

Divided loves: while Son and Mother Discourse alternate wounds to one another!

Quick deaths that grow

And gather as they come and go;

His nails write swords in Her; which soon Her heart Pays back, with more than their own smart;

Her swords, still growing with His pain,

Turn spears, and straight come home again.

She sees Her Son, Her God,

Bow with a load

Of borrow'd sins, and swim
In woes that were not made for Him.

Ah! hard command

Of Love! Here must She stand

Charged to look on, and with a steadfast

See Her life die;

Leaving Her only so much breath
As serves to keep alive Her death.

O, Mother turtle-dove!
Soft source of love!

That these dry lids might borrow
Something from Thy full seas of sorrow !

O, in that breast

Of Thine, the noblest nest

eye

Both of Love's fires and floods, might I recline

This hard, cold heart of mine,

The chill lump would relent, and prove
Soft subject for the siege of Love!

O, teach those wounds to bleed
In me; me, so to read

This book of loves, thus writ
In lines of death, my life may copy it
With loyal cares.

O, let me here claim shares !
Yield something in thy sad prerogative,
Great Queen of griefs, and give

Me to my tears; who, though all stone,
Think much that Thou should'st mourn alone.

Yea, let my life and me

Fix here with Thee,

And at the humble foot

Of this fair tree take our eternal root.

That so we may

At least be in Love's way;

And in these chaste wars while the wing'd wounds flee
So fast 'twixt Him and Thee,

My breast may catch the kiss of some kind dart,
Though as at second hand from either heart.

O you, your own best darts,

Dear doleful hearts!

Hail, and strike home and make me see That wounded bosoms their own weapons be!

Come, wounds! come, darts!

Nail'd hands! and pierced hearts!

Come, your whole selves, Sorrow's great Son and
Mother,

Nor grudge a younger brother

Of griefs his portion, who, had all their due,
One single wound should not have left for you.

Shall I set there

So deep a share,

Dear wounds, and only now
In sorrows draw no dividend with you!
O, be more wise,

If not more soft, mine eyes!
Flow, tardy founts! and into decent show'rs
Dissolve my days and hours:

And if thou yet, faint soul, defer

To bleed with Him, fail not to weep with Her.

Could

Rich Queen, lend some relief,

At least in alms of grief,

To a heart who, by a sad right of sin,

prove

the whole sum, too sure, due to him.

By all those stings

Of love, sweet bitter things,

Which these torn hands transcribed on Thy true heart;

O, teach mine, too, the art

To study him so,

till we mix

Wounds, and become one crucifix.

O, let me suck the wine

So long of this chaste vine,

Till, drunk of the dear wounds, I be

A lost thing to the world, as it to me!

O, faithful friend

Of me and of my end!

Fold up my life in love, and lay't beneath

My dear Lord's vital death.

Lo, heart, thy hope's whole plea! Her precious breath Pour'd out in prayers for thee; thy Lord's in death.

THE HYMN OF SAINT THOMAS IN
ADORATION OF THE BLESSED

SACRAMENT.

FITH all the pow'rs my poor heart hath,
Of humble love and loyal faith,

W

Thus low, my hidden life! I bow to Thee, Whom too much love hath bow'd more low for me. Down, down, proud sense! discourses die,

Keep close, my soul's enquiring eye !
Nor touch nor taste must look for more,
But each sit still in his own door.

Your ports are all superfluous here,
Save that which lets in faith-the ear.
Faith is my skill, faith can believe
As fast as love new laws can give.
Faith is my force, faith strength affords
To keep pace with those pow'rful words:
And words more sure, more sweet than they
Love could not think, truth could not say.

O, let Thy wretch find that relief Thou didst afford the faithful thief;

Plead for me, Love! allege and show
That faith has farther here to go,

And less to lean on; because then,

Though hid as God, wounds write Thee man ;
Thomas might touch none but might see,

At least, the suff'ring side of Thee ;

And that, too, was Thyself which Thee did cover, But here even that's hid, too, which hides the other.

Sweet, consider then, that I,

Though allow'd not hand nor eye
To teach at Thy loved face, nor can
Taste Thee God, or touch Thee man,
Both yet believe and witness Thee,
My Lord, too, and my God, as loud as He.

Help, Lord, my hope increase,
And fill my portion in Thy peace.

Give love for life, nor let my days

Grow, but in new powers to name Thy praise.

O, dear memorial of that death

Which lives still, and allows us breath!
Rich, royal flood! bountiful bread!

Whose use denies us to the dead;

Whose vital gust alone can give

The same leave both to eat and live ;

Live

ever, bread of loves, and be My life, my soul, my surer self to me!

O, soft self-wounding pelican,

Whose breast weeps balm for wounded man!