Which he had fashion'd in his wise foresight,
He man did make, and breathed a living spright
Into his face, most beautifull and faire,
Endew'd with wisdome's riches, heavenly rare.
Such he him made, that he resemble might
Himselfe, as mortall thing immortall could;
Him to be lord of every living wight
He made by love out of his owne like mould,
In whom he might his mightie selfe behould;
For love doth love the thing belov'd to see,
That like itselfe in lovely shape may bee.
But man, forgetfull of his Maker's grace,
No lesse than angels, whom he did ensew,'
Fell from the hope of promist heavenly place,
Into the mouth of Death, to sinners dew,
And all his off-spring into thraldome threw,
Where they for ever should in bonds remaine,
Of never-dead yet ever-dying paine.
Till that great Lord of Love, which him at first
Made of meere love, and after liked well,
Seeing him lie like creature long accurst
In that deep horror of despeired hell,
Him, wretch, in dole would let no longer dwell,
But cast out of that bondage to redeeme,
And pay the price, all were his debt extreeme.
Out of the bosome of eternall blisse,
In which he reigned with his glorious sire,
He downe descended, like a most demisse
And abject thrall, in fleshe's fraile attire,
That he for him might pay sinne's deadly hire,
And him restore unto that happie state
In which he stood before his haplesse fate.
In flesh at first the guilt committed was,
Therefore in flesh it must be satisfide;
Nor spirit, nor angel, though they man surpass,
Could make amends to God for man's misguide
But onely man himselfe, who selfe did slide:
So, taking flesh of sacred virgin's wombe,
For man's deare sake he did a man become.
And that most blessed bodie which was borne
Without all blemish or reprochfull blame,
He freely gave to be both rent and torne
Of cruell hands, who with despightfull shame
Reviling him, that them most vile became,
At length him nailed on a gallow-tree,
And slew the just by most unjust decree.
O huge and most unspeakable impression
Of Love's deep wound, that pierst the piteous heart
Of that dear Lord with so entire affection,
And sharply launcing every inner part,
Dolours of death into his soul did dart,
Doing him die that never it deserved,
To free his foes that from his heart had swerved!
What heart can feel least touch of so sore launch, Or thought can think the depth of so deep wound? Whose bleeding source their streams yet never staunch,
But still do flow, and freshly still redound,
To heal the sores of sinful souls unsound,
And cleanse the guilt of that infected crime
Which was enrooted in all fleshly slime.
O blessed Well of Love! O Floure of Grace!
O glorious Morning-Starre! O Lampe of Light!
Most lively image of thy Father's face,
Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might,
Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight,'
How can we thee requite for all this good?
Or what can prize that thy most precious blood?
Yet nought thou ask'st in lieu of all this love,
But love of us, for guerdon of thy paine:
Ay me! what can us lesse than that behove?
Had he required life of us againe,
Had it beene wrong to ask his owne with gaine?
He gave us life, he ́it restored lost;
Then life were least, that us so little cost.
But he our life hath left unto us free,
Free that was thrall, and blessed that was ban'd;'
Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee,
As he himselfe hath loved us afore-hand,
And bound thereto with an eternall band,
Him first to love that was so dearely bought,
And next our brethren, to his image wrought.
Him first to love great right and reason is,
Who first to us our life and being gave,
And after, when we fared had amiss,
Us wretches from the second death did save;
And last, the food of life, which now we have,
Even he himself, in his dear sacrament,
To feed our hungry souls, unto us lent.
Then next, to love our brethren, that were
Of that self mould, and that self Maker's hand
That we, and to the same again shall fade,
Where they shall have like heritage of land,
However here on higher steps we stand,
Which also were with self-same price redeemed
That we, however of us light esteemed.
And were they not, yet sith that loving Lord
Commanded us to love them for his sake,
Even for his sake, and for his sacred word,
Which in his last bequest he to us spake,
We should them love, and with their needs par
Knowing that whatsoe'er to them we give,
We give to him by whom we all do live.
Such mercy he by his most holy reed'
Unto us taught, and, to approve it true,
Ensampled it by his most righteous deed,
Shewing us mercy (miserable crew!)
That we the like should to the wretches shew,
And love our brethren, thereby to approve
How much himself that loved us we love.
Then rouze thyself, O earth! out of thy soil,
In which thou wallow'st like to filthy swine,
And dost thy mind in dirty pleasures moyl,
Unmindful of that dearest Lord of thine;
Lift up to him thy heavy-clouded eyne,
That thou this soveraine bounty maist behold,
And read through love his mercies manifold.
Begin from first where he incradled was
In simple cratch, wrapt in a wad of hay,
Between the toilful oxe and humble ass,
And in what rags, and in how base array,
The glory of our heavenly riches lay,
When him the silly shepherds came to see,
Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee.
From thence read on the story of his life,
His humble carriage, his unfaulty ways,
His cancred foes, his fights, his toils, his strife,
His pains, his poverty, his sharp assays,
Through which he past his miserable dayes,
Offending none, and doing good to all,
Yet being malic'd both of great and small.
And look at last, how of most wretched wights
He taken was, betray'd, and false accus'd,
How with most scornful taunts, and fell despights
He was revil'd, disgrac'd, and foul abus'd;
How scourg'd, how crown'd, how buffeted, how bruis'd;
And, lastly, how 'twixt robbers crucifide,
With bitter wound through hands, through feet, and side!
Then let thy flinty heart, that feels no pain,
Empierced be with pitiful remorse,
And let thy bowels bleed in every vein
At sight of his most sacred heavenly corse,
So torn and mangled with malicious force;
And let thy soul, whose sins his sorrows wrought,
Melt into tears, and grone in grieved thought.
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