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VII.

Yea let my life & me
Fix here with thee,

And at the Humble foot
Of this fair Tree take our eter[n]all root.

That so we may

At least be in loves way;
And in these chast warres while the wing’d wounds flee

So fast'twixt him & thee,
My brest may catch the kisse of some kind dart,
Though as at second hand, from either heart.

VIII.

O you, your own best Darts
Dear, dolefull hearts !

Hail; & strike home & make me see
That wounded bosomes their own weapons be.

Come wounds! come darts !

Nail'd hands ! & peirced hearts !
Come your whole selves, sorrow's great son & mother!

Nor grudge à yonger-Brother
Of greifes his portion, who (had all their due)
One single wound should not have left for you.

IX.

Shall I, sett there
So deep a share

(Dear wounds) & onely now
In sorrows draw no Dividend with you?

O be more wise

I[f] not more soft, mine eyes!
Flow, tardy founts! & into decent showres

Dissolve my Dayes & Howres.
And if thou yet (faint soul!) deferr
To bleed with him, fail not to weep with her.

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X.

Rich Queen, lend some releife;
At least an almes of greif

To'a heart who by sad right of sin
Could prove the whole summe (too sure) due to him.

By all those stings

Of love, sweet bitter things,
Which these torn hands transcrib’d on thy true heart

O teach mine too the art
To study him so, till we mix
Wounds; and become one crucifix.

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XI.

O let me suck the wine
So long of this chast vine

Till drunk of the dear wounds, I be
A lost Thing to the world, as it to me.

O faithfull freind

Of me & of my end!
Fold up my life in love; and lay't beneath

My dear lord's vitall death.
Lo, heart, thy hope's whole Plea! Her pretious Breath
Powr'd out in prayrs for thee; thy lord's in death.

UPON

THE

BLEEDING

CRUCIFIX

A

SONG.

I.

Esu, no more! It is full tide.

From thy head & from thy feet,
From thy hands & from thy side
All the purple Rivers meet.

J

II.
What need thy fair head bear a part
In showres, as if thine eyes had none?
What need They help to drown thy heart,
That strives in torrents of it's own?

III.

Thy restlesse feet now cannot goe
For us & our eternall good.
As they were ever wont. What though?
They swimme. Alas, in their own floud.

IV.

Thy hands to give, thou canst not lift; Yet will thy hand still giving be. It gives but ô, it self's the gift. It gives though bound; though bound 'tis free.

X.

Rich Queen, lend some releife
At least an almes of greif

To'a heart who by sad right
Could prove the whole summe (too sui

By all those stings

Of love, sweet bitter things,
Which these torn hands transcrib’d on

O teach mine too the art
To study him so, till we mix
Wounds; and become one crucifix.

XI.

O let me suck the wine
So long of this chast vine

Till drunk of the dear woun
A lost Thing to the world, as it to r.

O faithfull freind

Of me & of my end!
Fold up my life in love; and lay't be

My dear lord's vitall death.
Lo, heart, thy hope's whole Plea! H
Powr'd out in prayrs for thee; thy le

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BLEEDING CRUCIFIX

IL

head bear a part ne syes had done?

to drown thy heart, ts of it's own!

w cannot goe good. ont. What though?

in their own floud.

IV. 5 thou canst not lift; ill giving be.

t's the gift.

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