Cbaritas Nimia, OR, THE DEAR BARGAIN. Lord, what is man? why should he cost Thee So dear? what had his ruin lost Thee? Lord, what is man, that thou hast over-bought Love is too kind, I see; and can Alas, sweet Lord, what were't to Thee In the deep Hell: What have his woes to do with Thee? Let him go weep O'er his own wounds; Seraphims will not sleep, Nor spheres let fall their faithful rounds. Still would the youthful spirits sing; And still Thy spacious palace ring; Still would those beauteous ministers of light Burn all as bright; And bow their flaming heads before Thee; Still thrones and dominations would adore Thee; Still would those ever-wakeful sons of fire Keep warm Thy praise Both nights and days, And teach Thy loved name to their noble lyre. Let froward dust then do its kind; And give itself for sport to the proud wind. Why should'st Thou bow Thy awful breast to see Should not the king still keep his throne Will the gallant sun E'er the less glorious run? Will he hang down his golden head, Or e'er the sooner seek his Western bed, Grows wanton, and will die? If I were lost in misery, What was it to Thy Heaven and Thee? If my foul heart call'd for a flood? What if my faithless soul and I Would needs fall in With guilt and sin; What did the Lamb that He should die? What did the Lamb that He should need, If my base lust Bargain'd with Death and well-beseeming dust: Why should the white Lamb's bosom write The purple name Of my sin's shame ? Why should His unstain'd breast make good My blushes with His Own heart-blood? O my Saviour, make me see How dearly Thou hast paid for me; Sancta María Dolorum: OR, THE MOTHER OF SORROWS: A PATHETICAL DESCANT UPON THE DEVOUT PLAINSONG STABAT MATER DOLOROSA. I. In shade of Death's sad tree Ah she now by none other Name to be known, alas, but Sorrow's Mother. Her's and the whole World's joys, Hanging all torn, she sees; and in His woes And pains, her pangs and throes: Each wound of His, from every part, All, more at home in her one heart. II. What kind of marble then Is that cold man Who can look on and see, Nor keep such noble sorrows company? Sure even from you (My flints) some drops are due, To see so many unkind swords contest While with a faithful, mutual flood, Her eyes bleed tears, His wounds weep blood. OF III. O costly intercourse Of deaths, 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. IV. 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 eye Leaving her only so much breath V. O mother turtle-dove! Soft source of love! That these dry lids might borrow Something from thy full seas of sorrow! |