University of Virginia Library

A Meditation of Death.

Death, the old serpent's son,
Thou had'st a sting once like thy sire,
That carried Hell, and ever-burning fire:
But those black dayes are done;

28

Thy foolish spite buried thy sting
In the profound and wide
Wound of our Saviour's side.
And now thou art become a tame and harmless thing,
A thing we dare not fear
Since we hear
That our triumphant God to punish thee
For the affront thou didst Him on the tree,
Hath snatcht the keyes of Hell out of thy hand,
And made thee stand
A porter to the gate of Life, thy mortal enemie.
O Thou who art that gate, command that he
May when we die
And thither flie,
Let us into the courts of Heaven through Thee.
Allelujah.