Have mercy, Lord, upon me, for I am weak; O Lord heale me, for my bones are vexed.
Soule. Jesus.
Soule:
Ah, Son of David, help:
Jesus:
What sinfull crie
Implores the Son of David?
Soule:
It is I:
Jesus:
Who art thou?
Soule:
Oh, a deeply wounded brest
That's heavy laden, and would faine have rest.
Jesus:
I have no scraps, and dogs must not be fed
Like household Children, with the childrens bread:
Soule:
True Lord; yet tolerate a hungry whelp
To lick their crums: O, Son of David, help.
Jesus:
Poore Soule, what ail'st thou?
Soule:
O I burne, I fry;
I cannot rest; I know not where to fly
To find some ease; I turne my blubber'd face
From man to man; I roule from place to place,
T'avoid my tortures, to obtaine reliefe,
But still am dogg'd and haunted with my griefe:
My midnight torments call the sluggish light,
And when the morning's come, they woo the night.
Jesus:
Surcease thy teares, and speake thy free desires;
Soule:
Quench, quench my flames, and swage these scorching fires:
Jesus:
Canst thou believe my hand can cure thy griefe;
Soule:
Lord, I believe; Lord, help my unbelefe:
Jesus:
Hold forth thy Arme, and let my fingers try
Thy Pulse; where (chiefly) does the torment lie?
Soule:
From head to foot; it raignes in ev'ry part
But playes the selfe-law'd Tyrant in my heart.
Jesus:
Canst thou digest? canst relish wholsome food?
How stands thy tast?
Soule:
To nothing that is good:
All sinfull trash, and earths unsav'ry stuffe
I can digest, and relish well enough:
Jesus:
Is not thy bloud as cold as hot, by turnes?
Soule:
Cold to what's good; to what is bad, it burnes:
Jesus:
How old's thy griefe?
Soule:
I tooke it at the Fall
With eating Fruit.
Jesus:
'Tis Epidemicall;
Thy blood's infected, and th'Infection sprung
From a bad Liver: 'Tis a Fever strong,
And full of death, unlesse, with present speed,
A veine be op'ned; Thou must die, or bleed.
Soule:
O I am faint, and spent. That Launce that shall
Let forth my bloud, lets forth my life withall;
My soule wants Cordialls, and has greater need
Of blood, than (being spent so farre) to bleed;
I faint already: If I bleed, I die;
Jesus:
'Tis either thou must bleed, sicke soule, or I:
My blood's a cordiall: He that suckes my veines,
Shall cleanse his owne, and conquer greater paines
Than these: Cheere up: this precioius Blood of mine
Shall cure thy Griefe; my heart shall bleed for thine:
Believe, and view me with a faithfull eye;
Thy soule shall neither languish, bleed, nor die
S. AUGUST. lib. 10. Confess.
Lord, Be mercifull unto me: Ah me: Behold, I hide not my wounds: Thou art a
Physitian, and I am sicke; Thou art mercifull, and I am miserable.
S. GREG. in Pastoral.
O Wisedome, with how sweet an art does thy wine and oyle restore health to
my healthlesse soule! How powerfully mercifull, how mercifully powerfull art
thou! Powerfull, for me, Mercifull, to me!
