While they speak nothing, they proclaim
Thee with the shrillest trump of Fame.
To hold their peace is all the ways

These wretches have to speak Thy praise.

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“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
Of your own doubt:

Besides this fear of danger, there's no danger here;
And he that here fears danger, does deserve his fear.

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,
She was a nymph, the meadows knew none such,
Of honest parentage, of unstain'd race;
The daughter of a fair and well-famed fountain,
As ever silver-tipp'd the side of shady mountain.

See how she weeps, and weeps, that she appears
Nothing but tears;

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
Saviour's Wounds.

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:
Once I did spell
Every red letter

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!
Are they mouths? or are they eyes?

Be they mouths, or be they eyne,

Each bleeding part some one supplies.

Lo! a mouth, whose full-bloom'd lips
At too dear a rate are roses.
Lo! a blood-shot eye that weeps,
And many a cruel tear discloses.

O thou, that on this foot hast laid
Many a kiss, and many a tear;
Now thou shalt have all repaid,
Whatsoe'er thy charges were.

This foot hath got a mouth and lips,
To pay the sweet sum of thy kisses;
To pay thy tears, an eye that weeps,
Instead of tears, such gems as this is.

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,
Nor is Death forced; for may he lie

Throned in Thy grave,

Death will on this condition be content to die.

Psalm rriii.

Happy me! O happy sheep!
Whom my God vouchsafes to keep;
Even my God, even He it is

That points me to these paths of bliss
On Whose pastures cheerful Spring
All the year doth sit and sing,
And rejoicing, smiles to see
Their green backs wear His livery;
Pleasure sings my soul to rest,
Plenty wears me at her breast,
Whose sweet temper teaches me
Not wanton, nor in want to be.
At my feet the blubbering mountain
Weeping, melts into a fountain,
Whose soft, silver-sweating streams
Make high-noon forget his beams :
When my wayward breath is flying,
He calls home my soul from dying,
Strokes and tames my rabid grief,
And does woo me into life:
When my simple weakness strays,
(Tangled in forbidden ways)
He (my Shepherd) is my guide,
He's before me, on my side,
And behind me; He beguiles
Craft in all her knotty wiles:

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