University of Virginia Library

[iii] [An Hymne of the Ascension.]

Bright Portalles of the Skie,
Emboss'd with sparkling Starres,
Doores of Eternitie,
With diamantine barres,
Your Arras rich vp-hold,
Loose all your bolts and Springs,
Ope wyde your Leaues of gold;
That in your Roofes may come the King of kings.
Scarff'd in a rosie Cloud,
Hee doth ascend the Aire,
Straight doth the Moone him shrowd
With her resplendant Haire;
The next enchristall'd Light
Submits to him its Beames,
And hee doth trace the hight
Of that faire Lamp which flames of beautie streames.
Hee towers those golden Bounds
Hee did to Sunne bequeath,
The higher wandring Rounds
Are found his Feete beneath;
The milkie-way comes neare,
Heauens Axell seemes to bend,
Aboue each turning Spheare
That roab'd in Glorie Heauens King may ascend.
O Well-spring of this All,
Thy Fathers Image viue,
Word, that from nought did call
What is, doth reason, liue;
The Soules eternall Foode,
Earths Ioy, Delight of Heauen;
All Truth, Loue, Beautie, Good,
To Thee, to Thee bee praises euer giuen.
What was dismarshall'd late
In this thy noble Frame,
And lost the prime estate,
Hath re-obtain'd the same,
Is now most perfect seene;
Streames which diuerted were
(And troubled strayed vncleene)
From their first Source, by Thee home turned are.
By Thee that blemish old,
Of Edens leprous Prince,
Which on his Race tooke hold,
And him exyl'd from thence,
Now put away is farre;
With Sword, in irefull guise,
No Cherub more shall barre
Poore man the Entries into Paradise.
By Thee those Spirits pure,
First Children of the Light,
Now fixed stand and sure,
In their eternall Right;
Now humane Companies
Renew their ruin'd Wall,
Fall'n man as thou makst rise,
Thou giu'st to Angels that they shall not fall.
By Thee that Prince of Sinne,
That doth with mischiefe swell,
Hath lost what hee did winne,
And shall endungeon'd dwell;
His spoyles are made thy pray,
His Phanes are sackt and torne,
His Altars raz'd away,
And what ador'd was late, now lyes a Scorne.
These Mansions pure and cleare,
Which are not made by hands,
Which once by him joy'd were,
And his (then not stain'd) Bands
(Now forefait'd, dispossest,
And head-long from them throwne)
Shall Adams Heires make blest,
By Thee their great Redeemer made their owne.
O Well-spring of this All,
Thy Fathers Image viue,
Word, that from nought did call,
What is, doth Reason, liue;
Whose worke is, but to will,
Gods coeternall Sonne,
Great Banisher of ill,
By none but Thee could these great Deedes bee done.
Now each etheriall Gate,
To him hath opened bin;
And glories King in state,
His Pallace enters in;
Now com'd is this high Prest,
In the most holie Place,
Not without Blood addrest,
With Glorie Heauen the Earth to crowne with Grace.
Starres which all Eyes were late,
And did with wonder burne,
His Name to celebrate,
In flaming Tongues them turne;
Their orbye Christales moue
More actiue than before,
And entheate from aboue,
Their Soueraigne Prince laude, glorifie, adore.
The Quires of happie Soules,
Wakt with that Musicke sweete,
Whose Descant Care controules,
Their Lord in Triumph meete;
The spotlesse Sprightes of light,
His Trophees doe extole,
And archt in Squadrons bright,
Greet their great victor in his Capitole.
O Glorie of the Heauen,
O sole Delight of Earth,
To Thee all power bee giuen,
Gods vncreated Birth;
Of Man-kind louer true,
Indeerer of his wrong,
Who dost the world renew,
Still bee thou our Saluation and our Song.
From Top of Oliuet such notes did rise,
When mans Redeemer did transcend the Skies.