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

Ovt of thy wounded husbands Saviours side,
Espoused soul, there flowes with a full tide
A fountaine for uncleannesse: wash thee there,
Wash there thine heart, and then thou need'st not feare.

Ode. 17.

1

O endlesse misery!
I labour still, but still in vaine.
The staines of sinne I see
Are oaded all, or di'd in graine.
There's not a blot
Will stirre a jot
For all that I can doe:
There is no hope
In Fullers sope,
Though I adde nitre too.

2

I many wayes have tri'd,
Have often soakt it in cold feares,
And, when a time I spi'd,
Powred upon it scalding teares,
Have rins'd, and rub'd,
And scrap't and scrub'd;

And turn'd it up, and downe:
Yet can I not
Wash out one spot,
It's rather fouler growne.

3

O miserable state!
Who would be troubled with an heart,
As I have been of late,
Both to my sorrow, shame, and smart?
If it will not
Be cleaner got,
'T were better I had none.
Yet how should we
Divided be,
That are not two, but one?

4

But am I not starke wilde,
That go about to wash mine heart
With hands that are defil'd,
As much as any other part?
Whilst all thy teares,
Thine hopes, and feares,
Both ev'ry word, and deed,
And thought is foule,
Poore silly soule,
How canst thou looke to speed?

5

Can there no helpe be had?
Lord, thou art holy, thou art pure:
Mine heart is not so bad,
So foule, but thou canst cleanse it sure.
Speak, blessed Lord,
Wilt thou afford
Me meanes to make it cleane?

I know thou wilt:
Thy bloud were spilt
Should it runne still in vaine.

6

Then to that blessed spring,
Which from my Saviours sacred side
Doth flow, mine heart I'll bring,
And there it will be purifi'd.
Although the dye,
Wherein I lie,
Crimson, or scarlet were,
This bloud I know
Will make't, as snow,
Or wooll, both cleane, and cleere.

University of Virginia Library

The cleansing of the Heart.

Epigr. 17.

Ode. 17.

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