While they speak nothing, they proclaim These wretches have to speak Thy praise. -:0: “Why are ye Afraid, O ye of Little Faith?” -Mark iv., 40. As if the storm meant Him; Or 'cause Heaven's face is dim, His needs a cloud. Was ever froward wind That could be so unkind, Or wave so proud? The wind had need be angry, and the water black, That to the mighty Neptune's Self dare threaten wrack. There is no storm but this Of your own cowardice That braves you out; You are the storm that mocks Yourselves; you are the rocks Besides this fear of danger, there's no danger here; To Pontius [Pilate] Washing his Blood stained hands. Is murder no sin? or a sin so cheap, That thou need'st heap A rape upon 't? Till thy adult'rous touch Taught her these sullied cheeks, this blubber'd face, See how she weeps, and weeps, that she appears Each drop's a tear that weeps for her own waste. Hark how at every touch she does complain her! Hark how she bids her frighted drops make haste, And with sad murmurs chides the hands that stain her ! Leave, leave, for shame, or else, good judge, decree What water shall wash this, when this hath washed thee. On the Still Surviving Marks of our Whatever story of their cruelty, Or nail, or thorn, or spear have writ in Thee, Are in another sense Still legible; Sweet is the difference: A wound of Thine; Now, what is better, Balsam for mine. -:0: On the Wounds of our Crucified Lord. O these wakeful wounds of Thine! Be they mouths, or be they eyne, Each bleeding part some one supplies. Lo! a mouth, whose full-bloom'd lips O thou, that on this foot hast laid This foot hath got a mouth and lips, Rise mighty Man of wonders, and Thy World with Thee Thy tomb the universal East, Nature's new womb, Thy tomb, fair Immortality's perfumèd nest. Of all the glories make Noon gay, This is the Morn; This Rock buds forth the fountain of the streams of Day: In Joy's white annals live this hour When Life was born; No cloud scowl on His radiant lids, no tempest lour. Life, by this Light's nativity, All creatures have; Death only by this Day's just doom is forced to die, Throned in Thy grave, Death will on this condition be content to die. Psalm rriii. Happy me! O happy sheep! That points me to these paths of bliss ; |