Part 38 (1/2)

VII.

At the round earth's imagined corners blow Your trumpets, angels! and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go, All whom the flood did, and fire shall, overthrow; All whom war, death, age, ague's tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain; and you whose eyes Shall behold G.o.d, and never taste death's woe.

But let them sleep, Lord! and me mourn a s.p.a.ce; For if above all these my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace When we are there. Here on this holy ground Teach me how to repent, for that's as good As if thou hadst sealed my pardon with thy blood.

VIII.

If faithful souls be alike glorified As angels, then my father's soul doth see, And adds this even to full felicity, That valiantly I h.e.l.l's wide mouth o'erstride; But if our minds to these souls be descried By circ.u.mstances and by signs that be Apparent in us not immediately, How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried?

They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn, And style blasphemous conjurors to call On Jesus' name, and pharisaical Dissemblers feign devotion. Then turn, O pensive soul! to G.o.d, for he knows best Thy grief, for he put it into my breast.

IX

If poisonous minerals, and if that tree Whose fruit threw death on (else immortal) us; If lecherous goats, if serpents envious, Cannot be d.a.m.n'd, alas! why should I be?

Why should intent or reason, born in me, Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous?

And mercy being easy and glorious To G.o.d, in his stern wrath why threatens he?

But who am I that dare dispute with thee!

O G.o.d! oh, of thine only worthy blood, And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood, And drown in it my sins' black memory: That thou remember them some claim as debt, I think it mercy if thou wilt forget!

X

Death! be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death! nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure, then, from thee much more must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness, dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou, then?

One short sleep past we wake eternally; And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

XI.

Spit in my face, you Jews, and pierce my side, Buffet and scoff, scourge and crucify me, For I have sinned, and sinned, and only he Who could do no iniquity hath died, But by my death cannot be satisfied My sins, which pa.s.s the Jews' impiety: They killed once an inglorious man, but I Crucify him daily, being now glorified.

O let me then his strange love still admire.

Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment; And Jacob came, clothed in vile harsh attire, But to supplant, and with gainful intent: G.o.d clothed himself in vile man's flesh, that so He might be weak enough to surfer woe.

XII.

Why are we by all creatures waited on?

Why do the prodigal elements supply Life and food to me, being more pure than I, Simpler, and further from corruption?

Why brook'st thou, ignorant horse, subjection?

Why do you, bull and boar, so sillily Dissemble weakness, and by one man's stroke die, Whose whole kind you might swallow and feed upon?

Weaker I am, woe's me! and worse than you: You have not sinned, nor need be timorous, But wonder at a greater, for to us Created nature doth these things subdue; But their Creator, whom sin nor nature tied, For us, his creatures and his foes, hath died.

XIII.

What if this present were the world's last night?

Mark in my heart, O Soul! where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether his countenance can thee affright; Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light; Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell.

And can that tongue adjudge thee unto h.e.l.l Which prayed forgiveness for his foes' fierce spite?

No, no; but as in my idolatry I said to all my profane mistresses, Beauty of pity, foulness only is A sign of rigour, so I say to thee: To wicked spirits are horrid shapes a.s.signed; This beauteous form a.s.sumes a piteous mind.