 | Poetical works (1908) |  |
AN HYMNE.
Wake, O my soul; awake, and raise
Up every part to sing his praise,
Who from his spheare of glorie fell,
To raise thee up from death and hell:
See how his soul, vext for thy sinne,
Weeps bloud without, feels hell within:
See where he hangs; heark how he cries:
Oh bitter pangs! Now, now he dies.
Up every part to sing his praise,
Who from his spheare of glorie fell,
To raise thee up from death and hell:
See how his soul, vext for thy sinne,
Weeps bloud without, feels hell within:
See where he hangs; heark how he cries:
Oh bitter pangs! Now, now he dies.
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Wake, O mine eyes; awake, and view
Those two twin-lights, whence heavens drew
Their glorious beams, whose gracious sight
Fills you with joy, with life, and light:
See how with clouds of sorrow drown'd,
They wash with tears thy sinfull wound;
See how with streams of spit th' are drencht;
See how their beams with death are quencht.
Those two twin-lights, whence heavens drew
Their glorious beams, whose gracious sight
Fills you with joy, with life, and light:
See how with clouds of sorrow drown'd,
They wash with tears thy sinfull wound;
See how with streams of spit th' are drencht;
See how their beams with death are quencht.
Wake, O mine eare; awake, and heare
That powerfull voice, which stills thy fear,
And brings from heav'n those joyfull news,
Which heav'n commands, which hell subdues;
Heark how his eares (heav'ns mercie-seat)
Foul slanders with reproaches beat:
Heark how the knocks our eares resound;
Heark how their mocks his hearing wound.
That powerfull voice, which stills thy fear,
And brings from heav'n those joyfull news,
Which heav'n commands, which hell subdues;
Heark how his eares (heav'ns mercie-seat)
Foul slanders with reproaches beat:
Heark how the knocks our eares resound;
Heark how their mocks his hearing wound.
Wake O my heart; tune every string:
Wake O my tongue; awake, and sing:
Think not a thought in all thy layes,
Speak not a word, but of his praise:
Tell how his sweetest tongue they drownd
With gall; think how his heart they wound:
That bloudie spout gagg'd for thy sinne,
His life lets out, thy death lets in.
Wake O my tongue; awake, and sing:
Think not a thought in all thy layes,
Speak not a word, but of his praise:
Tell how his sweetest tongue they drownd
With gall; think how his heart they wound:
That bloudie spout gagg'd for thy sinne,
His life lets out, thy death lets in.
| Poetical works (1908) | |