Schola Cordis or the Heart of it Selfe, gone away from God ::

Words move thee not, nor works: nor gifts, nor strokes
Thy sturdy adamantine heart provokes
My Justice, sleights my mercies: Anvile-like
Thou stand'st unmoved, though my hammer strike.

Ode. 8.

1

What have we here? An heart? It lookes like one,
The shape; and colour speake it such:
But having brought it to the touch
I find it is no better then a stone.
Adamants are
Softer by farre.

2

Long hath it steeped been in Mercies milke,
And soaked in salvation,
Meet for the alteration
Of anvills to have made them soft as silke;
Yet it is still
Hard'ned in ill.

3

Oft have I rain'd my Word upon it, oft
The dew of heaven hath distill'd,
With promises of mercy fill'd,
Able to make mountaines of marble soft:
Yet it is not
Changed a jot.

4

My beames of love shine on it every day,
Able to thaw the thickest ice,
And where they enter in a trice
To make congealed Crystall melt away:
Yet warme they not
This frozen clot.

5

Nay more, this hammer, that is wont to grind
Rocks unto dust, and powder small,
Makes no impression at all,
Nor dint, nor crack, nor flaw, that I can find:
But leaves it as
Before it was.

6

Is mine Almighty arme decai'd in strength?
Or hath mine hammer lost its weight?
That a poore lumpe of earth should sleight
My mercies, and not feele my wrath at length,
With which I make
Ev'n heav'n to shake?

7

No, I am still the same, I alter not,
And, when I please, my workes of wonder
Shall bring the stoutest spirits under,

And make them to confesse it is their lot
To bow or break,
When I but speak.

8

But I would have men know, 't is not my Word,
Or works alone can change their hearts:
These instruments performe their parts,
But 'tis my Spirit doth this fruit afford.
'Tis I, not art,
Can melt mans heart.

9

Yet would they leave their customary sinning,
And so unclench the devills clawes,
That keepes them captive in his pawes,
My bounty soone should second that beginning:
Ev'n hearts of steel
My force should feel.

University of Virginia Library

The hardnesse of the Heart.

Epigr. 8.

Ode. 8.

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