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The Shorter Poems of Ralph Knevet

A Critical Edition by Amy M. Charles

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[35] Infinitenes
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[35] Infinitenes

(Lord) Hee, who goes about to find
Thy pow'r, and bounds would to it sett,
As soone may manacle the winde,
Or aire emprison in a nette,
Yea Hee as soone may with one spanne,
Measure the largest Ocean.
But when I of thy beauty muse,
Whose onely vision to us shall,
Divine beatitude infuse,
I into greater wonder fall,
And count it even the worst of crimes,
T' admire the beautyes of the times.
Nor doth thy wisedome lesse mee take,
When I behold the order rare,
Of things, which thine owne hand did make:
Even from the gloworme, to the starre,

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From th' Angell bright, to the darke clod,
Thy wisedome doth extend (oh God)
But when thy justice (I behold)
I am forc'd to admire, and feare,
Th' examples bee so manifold,
Of thy great judgements every where:
As well in these; as essence, Thou,
Incorruptible ar't (I know)
While I a corruptible wretch,
My Judge incorruptible view,
Deepe sighes I am compell'd to fetch;
Such sorowes doe my sinnes pursue:
Yet I find comfort, when I see,
My Saviour my Judge shall bee.
Even like Ezekiels dry'd bones,
I am reviv'd, and in my mind,
Find new, and cheerefull motions,
(Lord) when I see thy mercyes kind
Which doe in number, farre surmount
All arithmeticall account.
T'was not impossible (oh Lord)
To count thy wounds, not onely those
Wherewith thy hands, and feet were gor'd,
But such as scourges did impose,
Or those which by the crowne of thorne,
Were fix'd on Thee, in cruell scorne.
But How thy sorowes did abound,
Beyond humane capacitye;
No griefe like thine was ever found:
Thy whole life was an Agonye:

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Yet t'was not strange, thou dids't sweat blood,
Since such a burthen did thee loade.
For both Heavens wrath, and the worlds sinne,
Thou meekely, didst vouchsafe to beare:
Millions of Sampsons, had not bin
Sufficient, such a weight to reare:
But at thy death, the Sunne puttes on
Blacke robes, while th' Elements did grone.
Never was such an obite kept,
For at thy death, the Dead did rise,
(Who in the graves long time had slept)
To celebrate thine Obsequyes:
Angells, and Devills, mourn'd to see
The Lord of life, dye on a tree.
The symptomes of thy passion (Lord)
Remembrancers are of thy love,
Who with thy bloud mads't an accord,
For sinners, in the Heavens above:
Numbers confine thy suffrings might,
But (Lord) thy love is infinite.
An Angell, with a reede of gold,
Did measure new Jerusalem;
But Angells tongues cannot unfold
Thy love, and mercy: To mete them
It passeth geometricke skill,
For they both Heaven, and earth doe fill.
Oh give me leave for to adore,
Thy wisedome, Justice, strength, and beauty,
Rich in desires I am, though poore,
In the performance of my duety,

338

Let not thy love, my love despise,
But make my heart, thy sacrifice.