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To Christ.
A Poem of Hugo Grot. Sil. lib. 1. p. 10. Translated.
O Christ, which art the head of every thing,From whom a better life then this doth spring;
Thy Fathers measure yet unmeasured,
Whom (whiles that he himself contemplated
In his high mind) he streams forth light of light,
And sees himself in's equal image bright;
Like whom the world, and the worlds guardian, man,
Was made: but O, he suddainly began
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And prest with crimes (which him most deerly cost)
Becoming guilty of the greatest pain,
In this state lay, and had for ever laine,
But that thy Father his case pitying, did
Give thee, who with himself before wast hid
Under concealed light; eternal love
Unto his Church did bim to mercy move.
His truth by dreams he wil reveal no more,
Nor visions by his Prophets as before;
But willing now a living Law to make,
And lasting league with men; lo thou didst take
A mortal body, and a man-like face,
Yet not begot the way of humane race
By filthy lust, but thou conceived wast
By power divine born of a Virgin chaste;
Though thou no purple hadst to cloth thee, then
Being newly born, nor bands of armed men
To compasse thee about and be thy guard,
Yet Citizens of heaven keep watch and ward,
And divine Anthems sang about thy stal
More royal thus then any Princes Hall.
The beasts and shepherds thee incircled there,
Poor, but far happier then all Kings they were
In that they knew thee; thou a new come guest
Wert by thy heaven to earth made manifest.
The Magi stood amaz'd, a starre to see
Ne're seen before; how great (say they) is he
That's born, to honour whom new stars appear?
Yee fierie signes of heaven your light forbear,
Forbeare ye wandring stars, and Charls his Wayne
To guide the Passengers upon the Maine,
For through the various waves of things below
And life's uncertainties, this Star doth show
The way, not that which unto Babylon brings,
Proud in the Courts of her Arsacian Kings,
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Nor to Jerusalem's turrets, but points out
The Cottages of Bethlehem, and the door
Of shepherds tents; Jewes seek your King no more
Amongst the Cornets and the Trumpets sound,
And th' Arms wherewith mans furie doth surround
Himself; ye know not, wretches as ye be,
How neer a thing to heaven is povertie,
How sweet to suffer; tel the Parthians now,
Goe tel the Romans, tel your Herod how
Hee'll make the blind to see, the lame to walk,
Hee'll make the deaf to hear, the dumb to talke,
Hee'll heal all plagues and sicknesses with ease,
By's word not herbs, and calm the raging seas.
Thousands he wil with little food sustain,
Himself long time with none, and raise again
The dead, make water wine at his command,
And walk upon the sea as on dry land.
Let them whom jewels deck, let Martial men
Try if they can perform the like again;
These my poor Christ can doe, nor doth he cure
Bodies alone, but minds of men make pure,
Purges their brests that are possest with sin,
And heals the plague-sick world which we live in.
Thus a right way he takes, whiles those that stand
And mightie are, he puls down with his hand;
Those that are weak and fallen he erects.
But look what stirrs i'th' heavens; What strange aspects
And strife of things; Whiles so great good in thee
Is recompenc'd with hateful crueltie;
Not by the Sythian, or the barbarous men
Of Affrick, or the north Pole Citizen,
But by good Abrahams off-spring, who alone
Of all the nations was thy chosen one.
Such mischiefe black ambition can do,
Whiles't being incens'd with pride and hatred too
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A simple fate thou didst not perish by,
But as a thief thou di'dst, though innocent,
To undergoe our sin and punishment.
The sins of all the world did lye on thee
Since Adam ate of the forbidden tree;
From that first hour to this they prest thee all;
On us those bonds, on us those blowes should fall.
Those sharp black thorns should prick our temple veins
The Sergeant should us drag to endlesse pains;
The nails should pierce our hands, the spear our side,
And we without delay be crucified:
But so it did thy Father please, and Thee,
To mingle Mercy with Severity.
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