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

A thousand of thy strongest shafts, my light,
Draw up against this heart with all thy might,
And strike it through: They, that in need doe stand
Of cure, are healed by thy wounding hand.

Ode. 33.

1

Nay, spare me not dear Lord, it cannot be
They should be hurt, that wounded are by thee.
Thy shafts will heale the hearts they hit,
And to each sore its salve will fit.
All hearts by Nature are both sick, and sore,
And mine as much as any else, or more:
There is no place that's free from sinne,
Neither without it, nor within,
And universall maladies doe crave
Variety of medicines to have.

2

First, let the arrow of thy piercing eye,
Whose light outvieth the star-spangled skie,
Strike through the darknesse of my mind,
And leave no cloudy mist behind.
Let thy resplendent rayes of knowledge dart
Bright beames of understanding to mine heart,

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To my sinne-shadow'd heart, wherein
Black ignorance did first begin
To blurre thy beauteous Image, and deface
The glory of thy self-sufficing grace.

3

Next let the shaft of thy sharp-pointed pow'r
Discharged by that strength that can devour
All difficulties, and encline
Stout opposition to resigne
Its steely stubbornesse, subdue my will,
Make it hereafter ready to fulfill
Thy royall Law of righteousnesse,
As gladly, as I must confesse
It hath fulfilled heretofore th' unjust,
Prophane, and cruell lawes of its own lust.

4

Then let that love of thine, which made thee leave
The bosome of thy Father, and bereave
Thy self of thy transcendent glory,
Matter for an eternall story.
Strike through mine affections all together,
And let that Sun-shine cleer the cloudy weather,
Wherein they wander without guide,
Or order, as the wind, and tide
Of floting vanities transport, and tosse them,
Till self-begotten troubles curbe and crosse them.

5

Lord, empty all thy Quivers, let there be
No corner of my spacious heard lest free,
Till all be but one wound, wherein
No subtill sight-abhorring sinne
May lurk in secret unespi'd by me,
Or reigne in power unsubdu'd by thee.
Perfect thy purchas'd victory,

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That thou mai'st ride triumphantly,
And leading captive all captivity
Mai'st put an end to enmity in me.

6

Then, blessed Archer, in requitall I
To shoote thine arrowes back again will try.
By pray'rs, and praises, sighs, and sobs,
By vowes, and teares, by groans, and throbs,
I'll see if I can pierce, and wound thine heart,
And vanquish thee againe by thine own art.
Or, that we may at once provide
For all mishaps that may betide,
Shoot thou thy self, thou polisht shaft, to me,
And I will shoot my broken heart to thee.

University of Virginia Library

The wounding of the Heart.

Epigr. 33.

Ode. 33.

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