Looke upon my affliction and my paine, and forgive all my sinnes.
Both worke, and stroakes? Both lash, and labour too?
What more could Edom, or proud Ashur doe?
Lord, has thy scourge no mercy, and my woes
No end? My paines no ease? No intermission?
Is this the state? Is this the sad condition
Of those that trust thee? Will thy goodnesse please
T'allow no other favours? None but these?
Will not the Rethrick of my torments move?
Are these the symptoms? these the signs of love?
Is't not enough, enough that I fulfill
The toylsome task of thy laborious Mill?
May not this labour expiate, and purge
My sinne, without th'addition of thy scourge?
Looke on my cloudy brow, how fast it raines
Sad showers of sweat, thus the fruits of fruitlesse paines:
Behold these ridges; see what purple furrowes
Thy plow has made; O think upon those sorrowes,
That once were thine; wilt, wilt thou not be woo'd
To mercy, by the charmes of sweat and blood?
Canst thou forget that drowsie Mount, wherein
Thy dull Disciples slept? Was not my sinne
There, punish'd in thy soule? Did not this brow
Then sweat in thine? Were not those drops enow?
Remember Golgotha, where that spring-tide
Oreflow'd thy sov'raigne Sacramentall side;
There was no sinne; there was no guilt in Thee,
That call'd those paines; Thou sweatst; thou bledst for me:
Was there not blood enough, when one small drop
Had pow'r to ransome thousand worlds, and stop
The mouth of Justice? Lord, I bled before,
In thy deepe wounds: Can Justice challenge more?
Or doest thou vainly labour to hedge in
Thy losses from my sides? My blood is thin;
And thy free bounty scornes such easie thrift;
No, no, thy blood came not as lone, but gift:
But must I ever grinde? And must I earne
Nothing but stripes? O, wilt thou disalterne
The rest thou gav'st? Hast thou perus'd the curse
Thou laidst on Adams fall, and made it worse?
Canst thou repent of mercy? Heav'n thought good
Lost man should feed in sweat; not work in blood:
Why dost thou wound th'already wounded brest?
Ah me; my life is but a paine at best?
I am but dying dust: my dayes, a span;
What pleasure tak'st thou in the blood of man?
Spare, spare thy scourge, and be not so austere;
Send fewer stroakes, or lend more strength to beare.
S. BERN. Hom. 81 in Cant.
Miserable man! Who shall deliver me from the reproach of this shamefull
bondage? I am a miserable man; but a free man: free, because a man; Miserable,
because a servant: In regard of my bondage, miserable; In regard of my will,
inexcusable: For my will, that was free, beslaved it selfe to sinne, by assenting
to sinne; for he that commits sin, is the servant to sinne.
