 | Otia Sacra Optima Fides |  |
On Easter-day. 1648.
Death, where is thy sting?
Grave, where is thy victory?
Grave, where is thy victory?
Each thing below here hath its day,
As in the Proverb's said;
And so it comes to pass that they
Conquer are Conquered.
For He who for mans fault assign'd
Death, and a Graves reward,
Was pleas'd those bands for to unbind,
And so himself not spar'd,
But issuing forth his heav'nly throne,
Vouchsafes the Earth to bless,
And became here a little One
To make our Crimes goe less:
Not that our disobedience can
In weight or measure shrink;
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Before us takes the drink,
That bitter Potion we had
Deserv'd to quaff, and thus
He weeps Himself, and becomes sad
To purchase Joy for us.
And more than so: for every one
Will for his friend lay down
Some spark of love: but he alone
His Enemies to crown
Refus'd not Death; so deep from high
His Mercies did extend;
And if you ask the reason why,
'Twas meer for Mercies end.
Yet that grim Death and mouldy Grave
No longer be His Prison,
Than He himself alone would have,
He 'bides not there, but's risen.
And if we would as Conquerors rise
With him who vanquish'd those,
We must not fear where danger lies,
For Him all to expose:
But though the Grave doe open stand,
And persecutions reign,
At Hels desire and Deaths command,
Look on our Sovereign,
His Banner doth present the Cross
He bore, and bare Him too
For us; and we must count it loss
To fail what he did do.
Thus Sin and Hell, the Grave and Death
Must quit the field and fly,
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We'd live Eternally.
Thrice happy day whereon the Sun
Of Righteousness did rise,
And such a glorious Conquest won,
By being our Sacrifice:
And as unhappy He, that shall
Not finde the white and best
Of Stones to mark the same withall,
And priz't above the rest.
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