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Flamma sine Fumo

or, poems without fictions. Hereunto are annexed the Causes, Symptoms, or Signes of several Diseases with their Cures, and also the diversity of Urines, with their Causes in Poetical measure. By R. W. [i.e. Rowland Watkyns]

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The Passion of Christ.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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The Passion of Christ.

Vita mea fuit mors Christi; Mors Christi vita mea est.

Adam , who names to Creatures gave,
Did in fair Edens garden sin:
Christ in a garden, man to save,
His bitter Passion did begin;
There did his sweat, and drops abound,
Yea, drops of precious holy blood;
Which trickled down unto the ground,
And flowed like a crimson flood:
There Judas did his Lord betray
With a foul and deceitful kiss;
Dissemblers cast their souls away,
Regarding not eternal bliss.
From thence with lanthorns, staves and sword:
They led him like a wicked thief;
No faithful friend now aid affords,
No Angel ministers relief.
To Annas then they brought the Lord;
The holy Lamb is strongly bound;
To murther him they all accord,
In whom no guile or sin was found.
He could these cords asunder break,
His mighty hands did heaven frame;
My sins did bind and make him weak,
And subject unto pain and shame.

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Herod did scorn him, and disdain
To see so poor, and vile a thing;
The Lamb no favour can obtain,
When that the crafty Fox is King.
To Pilate's Hall they brought him bound
For, Pilate judgment was to give:
The Judge in him no evil found,
But that he might in justice live.
They did blindfold the God of Light
And struck the peaceful Prince of Love,
Though to the blind he gave their sight,
Yet nothing could these tyrants move:
They spit in his most glorious face,
Whose healing spittle cur'd the blind:
Although he gave to sinners grace,
Yet here he could no favour find:
They 'twixt two thieves him crucifie,
Who did him mock, and basely scorn;
Between two thorns you might espy
The Lilly of the vallies torn
This was our Saviour's nuptial day,
The bitter Cross his marriage bed,
Where he his patient head down lay,
His loving Spouse the Church to wed:
With nails they pierce his hands and feet,
And with a cruel spear his side;
From whence the Sacraments most sweet
Like to a lively stream did glide.
At last he bow'd his head divine,
All things were finisht and compleat;
His Spirit to God he did assigne,
And unto us his Merits great.