 | Poems Sacred And Satyricall |  |
121
Mercies Miracle.
![illustration](https://iiif.lib.virginia.edu/iiif/uva-lib:463492/full/!1600,1600/0/default.jpg")
CHRIST'S Setting forth from's Celestial PALACE,
Lodg'd in the Virgins Wombe; From that blest PLACE,
To th' Manger went; from Manger to the Crosse,
From Crosse departed (with his deare Blouds losse)
Vnto the SEPVLCHER, there made all ev'n,
And so return'd, Gloriously Home to HEAV'N.
To HEAV'N, from whence LORD let thy SACRED FIRE,
GLISTER upon my SOVLE, whose sole Desire
Begges MERCIE for my Sinnes, makes knowne to THEE,
THOV that hast RAVISHT ALL, hast Ravish't Me.
Lodg'd in the Virgins Wombe; From that blest PLACE,
To th' Manger went; from Manger to the Crosse,
From Crosse departed (with his deare Blouds losse)
Vnto the SEPVLCHER, there made all ev'n,
And so return'd, Gloriously Home to HEAV'N.
To HEAV'N, from whence LORD let thy SACRED FIRE,
GLISTER upon my SOVLE, whose sole Desire
Begges MERCIE for my Sinnes, makes knowne to THEE,
THOV that hast RAVISHT ALL, hast Ravish't Me.
VVonder, of Angells, O thou Flaming Glory,
Great Mercies Miracle, thy Sacred story
Shewes thy ne'r failing Love; it is thy love
(Thou Lambe of God, celestiall Turtle-Dove,)
Thy over liberall love that does restraine
Sodomes just Plague, which thou mightst justly raine
In blew flames, stormes of fire to consume,
Burne up this sinfull world, and scortch the plume
Of mortalls Pride; soules wilfully misled,
Pamper'd with Chin-deepe Lust, fullnesse of bread.
“Man is to Man a Monster-hearted stone,
“With God ther's mercy, but with Man ther's none.
God is the worlds miraculous Creator
Holy, just, mercifull, Man's glorious Maker.
God into hell, for Pride, the Divells hurld,
Gods Iustice drown'd, Gods mercy sav'd the world,
God is all Eye, he brings to open light,
The darkest deeds and secrets of the night,
Man's hell-bread plots against the Innocent,
God still contrives to'th Authors punishment.
God is all goodnesse, Greatnesse, deare delight,
His anger short, his mercy infinite.
Reade th'Everlasting Bible, there you'l finde
His all abundant Excellence inclin'd
To chide, then smile, long suffering, but sure,
First he beginnes to strike, and then to cure,
Drownes the rude world for impious sinne; and then
(Never to execute the like agen)
The Raine-bowe sends, as a most sacred signe
Of his ne'r failing mercy love divine!
O Mercy, thy rich thought appeares to me,
Tymes golden spurre, to quicken and make free
Dull stupid spirits from their Iade-like pace,
Swiftly to runne Vertues celestiall race:
Haste soule to heav'n, and thinke when thou dost faint,
A stately Pace too solemne for a Saint.
Plough through the dusty wayes, the dirt and mire
Of foulest sinnes, temptations fiercest fire
For Mercies sake; Mercy makes blest the braine,
Curbs sinnes delight with contemplations Reine.
Mercies sweet thought, stands the soules sacred spell,
'Gainst all the Thorny Passages of hell.
Adam at first, the second put to death,
The second dying, gave us all new birth.
The Tree of good and bad, and Apple gay,
Brought to the world, to cast us all away.
Yet the sad Tree of shame bare fruit to save,
All that beleev'd from the infernall grave.
And as our Parents first notorious Vice,
Whipt them from out the joyes of Paradice,
So from mans crooked sinfull waies unev'n
Christ entertaines us, readily to heaven.
Thinke what a ravishing Act of love was there
Figur'd toth' life; thinke thinke, O Blessed, Deare,
Soule-saving Saviour, sacred Purity,
Ravish my soule to tell thy Charity,
Thou sempeternall ravishing Rose-bud,
Who for our sinnes was sixe times dide in bloud,
Text in such Tragick letters as did show
Men turn'd to Monsters; the great debt we owe
To his victorious sufferings, that is
Mirrour of Majestie, man's only blisse.
Did the forgetfull wretch consider when
Hell hast's him on, to some hot sinne, and then
Finds no way left to his desire free,
But by a narrow lane where he must see,
That never enough to be lamented losse,
Christ Iesus Tenterd on the bloudy Crosse,
God on the Racke for our spirituall food
His limbs all o're, a Charactor of blood,
All wounded, and new bleeding, crying out,
O thou that bearst', the Christian stampe about
Thy flesh and blood; behold my bloud braine,
Was ever griefe like mine? sicke foule refraine,
Reade in my wounded side thy backe returne,
Thy sordid sinnes repulse; let thy soule mourne
In showers of sorrowes and to hells disgrace,
Reade sinnes dislike in my storme beaten fate.
Vnbosome Vice, cast from thy soule sinnes evill,
And with my Scriptum est, silence the divell.
Great Mercies Miracle, thy Sacred story
122
(Thou Lambe of God, celestiall Turtle-Dove,)
Thy over liberall love that does restraine
Sodomes just Plague, which thou mightst justly raine
In blew flames, stormes of fire to consume,
Burne up this sinfull world, and scortch the plume
Of mortalls Pride; soules wilfully misled,
Pamper'd with Chin-deepe Lust, fullnesse of bread.
“Man is to Man a Monster-hearted stone,
“With God ther's mercy, but with Man ther's none.
God is the worlds miraculous Creator
Holy, just, mercifull, Man's glorious Maker.
God into hell, for Pride, the Divells hurld,
Gods Iustice drown'd, Gods mercy sav'd the world,
God is all Eye, he brings to open light,
The darkest deeds and secrets of the night,
Man's hell-bread plots against the Innocent,
God still contrives to'th Authors punishment.
God is all goodnesse, Greatnesse, deare delight,
His anger short, his mercy infinite.
123
His all abundant Excellence inclin'd
To chide, then smile, long suffering, but sure,
First he beginnes to strike, and then to cure,
Drownes the rude world for impious sinne; and then
(Never to execute the like agen)
The Raine-bowe sends, as a most sacred signe
Of his ne'r failing mercy love divine!
O Mercy, thy rich thought appeares to me,
Tymes golden spurre, to quicken and make free
Dull stupid spirits from their Iade-like pace,
Swiftly to runne Vertues celestiall race:
Haste soule to heav'n, and thinke when thou dost faint,
A stately Pace too solemne for a Saint.
Plough through the dusty wayes, the dirt and mire
Of foulest sinnes, temptations fiercest fire
For Mercies sake; Mercy makes blest the braine,
Curbs sinnes delight with contemplations Reine.
Mercies sweet thought, stands the soules sacred spell,
'Gainst all the Thorny Passages of hell.
122
The second dying, gave us all new birth.
The Tree of good and bad, and Apple gay,
Brought to the world, to cast us all away.
Yet the sad Tree of shame bare fruit to save,
All that beleev'd from the infernall grave.
And as our Parents first notorious Vice,
Whipt them from out the joyes of Paradice,
So from mans crooked sinfull waies unev'n
Christ entertaines us, readily to heaven.
Thinke what a ravishing Act of love was there
Figur'd toth' life; thinke thinke, O Blessed, Deare,
Soule-saving Saviour, sacred Purity,
Ravish my soule to tell thy Charity,
Thou sempeternall ravishing Rose-bud,
Who for our sinnes was sixe times dide in bloud,
Text in such Tragick letters as did show
Men turn'd to Monsters; the great debt we owe
To his victorious sufferings, that is
Mirrour of Majestie, man's only blisse.
123
Hell hast's him on, to some hot sinne, and then
Finds no way left to his desire free,
But by a narrow lane where he must see,
That never enough to be lamented losse,
Christ Iesus Tenterd on the bloudy Crosse,
God on the Racke for our spirituall food
His limbs all o're, a Charactor of blood,
All wounded, and new bleeding, crying out,
O thou that bearst', the Christian stampe about
Thy flesh and blood; behold my bloud braine,
Was ever griefe like mine? sicke foule refraine,
Reade in my wounded side thy backe returne,
Thy sordid sinnes repulse; let thy soule mourne
In showers of sorrowes and to hells disgrace,
Reade sinnes dislike in my storme beaten fate.
Vnbosome Vice, cast from thy soule sinnes evill,
And with my Scriptum est, silence the divell.
Can carelesse Christians beare the thought of this
Mercies Memento, in their mindes amisse?
No sure; no hellish heart so prone to sinne,
But the rich thought of such rare love must winne
Mans soule to God; and with right admiration,
(Fixt firme and often on our Saviours passion)
Force him to hate the sinne he lik't so well,
And with a loathing kick, send it to hell.
Mercie's rememb'rance like a Curious Lute,
Renders most excellent Musicke, heavenly fruite,
Points out the weary soule the way to Grace,
And spurs us on to the Celestiall race.
Invites the penitent minde o're clogg'd with care,
To Heavenly extasie spirituall fare.
Mercifull God, turne thou man's vaine desire
To feare and trembling; let a zealous fire
Flame in the soules of men; let each proud eye,
Humbl'd with teares, admire thy Majestie,
Backward, and forward looke, calling to mind,
Those multitudes of Mercies mortalls find,
Day, Night, Tyme, Tyde, miraculously given,
By thy All-sacred hand, Great God of heav'n.
As the young Bird then, that do's never cease,
Op'ning the Mouth, untill the Damme release
And cures the want it suffers; so should wee
With vnlockt lipps, still pray, that God would free
Our soules from sinne, O 'tis a blessed taske,
God ne'r leaves giving, 'till we leave to aske.
Mercies Memento, in their mindes amisse?
126
But the rich thought of such rare love must winne
Mans soule to God; and with right admiration,
(Fixt firme and often on our Saviours passion)
Force him to hate the sinne he lik't so well,
And with a loathing kick, send it to hell.
Mercie's rememb'rance like a Curious Lute,
Renders most excellent Musicke, heavenly fruite,
Points out the weary soule the way to Grace,
And spurs us on to the Celestiall race.
Invites the penitent minde o're clogg'd with care,
To Heavenly extasie spirituall fare.
Mercifull God, turne thou man's vaine desire
To feare and trembling; let a zealous fire
Flame in the soules of men; let each proud eye,
Humbl'd with teares, admire thy Majestie,
Backward, and forward looke, calling to mind,
Those multitudes of Mercies mortalls find,
Day, Night, Tyme, Tyde, miraculously given,
By thy All-sacred hand, Great God of heav'n.
127
Op'ning the Mouth, untill the Damme release
And cures the want it suffers; so should wee
With vnlockt lipps, still pray, that God would free
Our soules from sinne, O 'tis a blessed taske,
God ne'r leaves giving, 'till we leave to aske.
Dei misericordia, plenitude est virtutum.
| Poems Sacred And Satyricall | |