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: 25 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. 30 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 See her life die; Leaving her only so much breath As serves to keep alive her death. V VO 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 35 40 45 Both of Love's fires and floods) might I recline The chill lump would relent, and prove VI O teach those wounds to bleed 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, too, my tears; who, though all stone, 50 55 60 VII 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; 65 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, 70 75 80 VIII O you, your own best darts, Hail and strike home, and make me see Nail'd hands! and piercèd 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) IX Shall I [in sins] 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 showers And if thou yet (faint soul!) defer To bleed with Him, fail not to weep with her. X Rich queen, lend some relief; At least an alms of grief, To a heart who by sad right of sin Could prove the whole sum (too sure) due to him. Of Love, sweet-bitter things, 85 90 95 Which these torn hands transcribed on thy true heart; O teach mine, too, the art To study Him so, till we mix XI Oh, 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. 100 105 Lo, heart, thy hope's whole plea! her precious breath Pour'd out in prayers for thee; thy Lord's in death. 110 UPON THE BLEEDING CRUCIFIX A SONG I Jesu, no more! It is full tide; From Thy head and from Thy feet, From Thy hands, and from Thy side, All the purple rivers meet. II What need Thy fair head bear a part In showers, as if Thine eyes had none? What need they help to drown Thy heart, That strives in torrents of its own? 5 III [Water'd by the showers they bring, The thorns that Thy blest brow encloses (A cruel and a costly spring) Conceive proud hopes of proving roses.] IV Thy restless feet now cannot go For us and our eternal good, As they were ever wont. What though? V Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift; Yet will Thy hand still giving be. It gives, but O itself's the gift: IO 15 It gives though bound; though bound 'tis free. 20 VI But, O Thy side! Thy deep-digg'd side! That hath a double Nilus going: Nor ever was the Pharoan tide Half so fruitful, half so flowing. VII No hair so small, but pays his river VIII But while I speak, whither are run I counted wrong: there is but one; 25 30 |