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While they speak nothing, they proclaim
These wretches have to speak Thy praise.
“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
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
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_bis_Bloodstained 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 ;
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 Saviour's Wounds.
Whatever story of their cruelty,
Or nail, or thorn, or spear have writ in Thee,
Are in another sense
On the Wounds of our Crucified Lord.
O these wakeful wounds of Thine!
Are they mouths? or are they eyes?
Lo! a mouth, whose full-bloom'd lips
O thou, that on this foot hast laid
Many a kiss, and many a tear ;
Whatsoe'er thy charges were.
This foot hath got a mouth and lips,
Instead of tears, such gems as this is.
The difference only this appears,
(Nor can the change offend) The debt is paid in ruby tears, Which thou in pearls didst lend.
Upon Easter Day.
-Rise heir of fresh Eternity,
Rise mighty Man of wonders, and Thy World with Thee
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.
Happy me! O happy sheep!
That points me to these paths of bliss;
All the year doth sit and sing,
And rejoicing, smiles to see
Their green backs wear His livery;
Pleasure sings my soul to rest,
Whose sweet temper teaches me
At my feet the blubbering mountain