Schola Cordis or the Heart of it Selfe, gone away from God ::

Here , take thy Saviours crosse, the nailes, and speare,
That for thy sake his holy flesh did teare:
Use them as knives thine heart to circumcise,
And dresse thy God a pleasing sacrifice.

Ode. 13.

1

Heale thee? I will. But first I'll let thee know
What it comes to.
The plaister was prepared long agoe:
But thou must doe
Something thy selfe, that it may bee
Effectually apply'd to thee.

2

I, to that end, that I might cure thy sores,
Was slaine, and dy'd,
By mine owne people was turn'd out of doores,
And crucify'd:
My side was pierced with a speare,
And nailes my hands and feet did teare.

3

Doe thou then to thy selfe, as they to mee:
Make haste, and try,
The old man, that is yet alive in thee,
To crucifie.

Till he be dead in thee, my blood
Is like to doe thee little good:

4

My course of physick is to cure the soule
By killing sinne.
So then, thine owne corruptions to controule
Thou must beginne.
Untill thine heart be circumcis'd,
My death will not be duly priz'd.

5

Consider then my crosse, my nailes, and speare,
And let that thought
Cut Rasor-like thine heart, when thou dost heare,
How deare I bought
Thy freedome from the pow'r of sinne,
And that distresse which thou wast in.

6

Cut out the iron sinew of thy neck,
That it may be
Supple, and pliant to obey my beck,
And learne of me.
Meeknesse alone, and yeelding, hath
A power to appease my wrath.

7

Shave off thine hairy scalpe, those curled locks
Powd'red with pride,
Wherewith thy scornfull heart my judgements mocks,
And thinks to hide
Its thunder-threatned head, which bared
Alone is likely to be spared.

8

Rippe off those seeming robes, but reall rags,
Which earth admires

As honourable ornaments, and brags
That it attires,
Cumbers thee with indeed. Thy sores
Fester with what the world adores.

9

Clip thine Ambitions wings, let downe thy plumes,
And learne to stoope,
Whilst thou hast time to stand. Who still presumes
Of strength will droope
At last, and flagge, when he should flye.
Falls hurt them most that climbe most high

10

Scrape off that scaly scurffe of vanities,
That clogges thee so:
Profits and pleasures are those enemies,
That worke thy woe.
If thou wilt have me cure thy wounds,
First ridde each humor that abounds.

University of Virginia Library

The circumcision of the Heart.

Epigr. 13.

Ode. 13.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10