Divine poems Containing The History of Ionah. Ester. Iob. Sampson. Sions Sonets. Elegies. Written and newly augmented, by Fra: Quarles |
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Meditat. 17.
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 | Divine poems |  |
Meditat. 17.
O what a pearle is hidden in this field,
Whose orient luster, and perfections yeeld
So great a treasure, that the Easterne Kings,
With all the wealth, their colder Climate brings;
Nere saw the like: It is a pearle whose glory
Is the diviner subject of a story,
Pend by an Angels quill; not understood
By the too dull conceit of flesh and bloud!
Vnkinde Judeans, what have you presented
Before your eyes? O, what have you attented!
He that was borne on purpose, to release
His life for yours, to bring your Nation peace;
To turne your mournings into joyfull Songs;
To fight your Battells; to revenge your wrongs;
Even him, alas, your cursed hands have made
This day your prisoner; Him have you betraid
To death: O, he whose snowy arme had power
To crush you all to nothing, and to shower
Downe strokes like thunderbolts, whose blasting breath
Might in a moment, puft you all to death,
And made ye fall before his frowning Brow,
See how he goes away, betraid by you!
Whose orient luster, and perfections yeeld
So great a treasure, that the Easterne Kings,
With all the wealth, their colder Climate brings;
Nere saw the like: It is a pearle whose glory
Is the diviner subject of a story,
Pend by an Angels quill; not understood
By the too dull conceit of flesh and bloud!
Vnkinde Judeans, what have you presented
Before your eyes? O, what have you attented!
350
His life for yours, to bring your Nation peace;
To turne your mournings into joyfull Songs;
To fight your Battells; to revenge your wrongs;
Even him, alas, your cursed hands have made
This day your prisoner; Him have you betraid
To death: O, he whose snowy arme had power
To crush you all to nothing, and to shower
Downe strokes like thunderbolts, whose blasting breath
Might in a moment, puft you all to death,
And made ye fall before his frowning Brow,
See how he goes away, betraid by you!
Thou great Redeemer of the world! whose bloud
Hath power to save more worlds, than Noahs floud
Destroyed bodies; thou, O thou that art
The Samson of our soules, How can the heart
Of man give thankes enough, that does not know
How much his death-redeemed soule does owe
To thy deare merits? We can apprehend
No more than flesh and bloud does recommend
To our confined thoughts: Alas, we can
Conceive thy love, but as the love of man:
We cannot tell the horror of that paine
Thou bought us from; nor can our hearts attaine
Those joyes that thou hast purchas'd in our name,
Nor yet the price thou paidst: our thoughts are lāe,
And craz'd; Alas, things mortall have no might,
No meanes to comprehend an Infinite:
We can behold thee cradled in a Manger
In a poore Stable: We can see the danger
The Tetrarch's fury made thee subject to;
We can conceive thy peverty; We know
Thy blessed hands (that might bin freed) were boūd,
We know, alas, thy bleeding browes were crown'd
With pricking thorne; Thy body torne with whips;
Thy palmes impeirc'd with ragged nailes; Thy lips
Saluted with a Traitors kisse; Thy browes
Sweating forth bloud: Thy oft repeated blowes;
Thy fastning to the crosse; Thy shamefull death;
These outward tortures all come underneath
Our dull conceits: But, what thy blessed soule
(That bore the burden of our guilt, and Scroule
Of all our sinnes, and horrid paines of Hell)
O, what that soule endur'd, what soule can tell!
Hath power to save more worlds, than Noahs floud
Destroyed bodies; thou, O thou that art
The Samson of our soules, How can the heart
Of man give thankes enough, that does not know
How much his death-redeemed soule does owe
To thy deare merits? We can apprehend
No more than flesh and bloud does recommend
To our confined thoughts: Alas, we can
Conceive thy love, but as the love of man:
We cannot tell the horror of that paine
Thou bought us from; nor can our hearts attaine
Those joyes that thou hast purchas'd in our name,
Nor yet the price thou paidst: our thoughts are lāe,
And craz'd; Alas, things mortall have no might,
No meanes to comprehend an Infinite:
We can behold thee cradled in a Manger
In a poore Stable: We can see the danger
The Tetrarch's fury made thee subject to;
We can conceive thy peverty; We know
Thy blessed hands (that might bin freed) were boūd,
We know, alas, thy bleeding browes were crown'd
351
Thy palmes impeirc'd with ragged nailes; Thy lips
Saluted with a Traitors kisse; Thy browes
Sweating forth bloud: Thy oft repeated blowes;
Thy fastning to the crosse; Thy shamefull death;
These outward tortures all come underneath
Our dull conceits: But, what thy blessed soule
(That bore the burden of our guilt, and Scroule
Of all our sinnes, and horrid paines of Hell)
O, what that soule endur'd, what soule can tell!
| Divine poems | |