 | Pietatis Lachrymae Teares of deuotion |  |
Non est Deus sicut noster.
At Christes Ascention heau'ns-vast wombe did wonder,whilst Angels harts did bleed & cleaue a sunder;
Immortall passions so did wound and paine them,
That all amort they sit and thus complaine them.
O thou bright morning star thou glories glory,
Make vs partakers of a wofull story.
By thee we know, sin, death, & hell confounded,
But cannot shew how wisdom came thus woūded;
Then gan the spirit of that be-slaughtered lambe,
To tell how by those wounds his goodnes came.
Amid the Center of an earthly Cell,
Accompanied with friends I long did dwell:
At length they wound, & bring me to my end,
And he that most did hurt was most my friend.
Life of all liues they kil'd and put to paine,
My harme, their good, sowre, sweet, my losse their gaine.
What heart can heare this and not burst asunder?
Twas I (woe's me therefore) that caus'd thine end,
Whom thou in mercie dost accompt a friend.
Within the closure of some obscure Cell,
My soule be-murdering-Lord till death shal dwel;
There shall it weeping sit, and read this story,
Till heau'n assume it for to see thy glorie.
| Pietatis Lachrymae Teares of deuotion | |