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Though clouded in a veil of flesh,
The Sun of Righteousness appears,
Melting cold cares, and frosty fears,
O that his light and influence,
Would work effectually in me
Another new Epiphany,
That, as my calling doth require,
Star-like I may to others shine ;
And guide them to that Sun divine,
THE PASSION, OR GOOD FRIDAY.
This day my Saviour died : and do I live?
What, hath not sorrow slain me yet?
His life for mine, and do I set
So full of glory, and of bliss ?
Did his free mercy, and mere love to me,
Make him forsake his glorious throne, And mount a cross, the stage of infamy,
That so he might not die alone ; But dying suffer more through grief and shame,
Than mortal men have power to name?
And can ingratitude so far prevail,
To keep me living still ? Alas ! Methinks some thorn out of his crown, some nail,
At least his spear, might pierce, and pass Thorough, and thorough, till it rived mine heart,
As the right death-deserving part.
And doth he not expect it should be so ?
Would he lay down a price so great,
Accordingly? Shall I defeat
His death must needs be death to me.
My life's not mine, but his : for he did die
That I might live : yet dièd so,
Thorough the gates of death must go
Is a part in his death to bear.
Die then, dull soul, and if thou canst not die,
Dissolve thyself into a Sea Of living tears, whose streams may ne'er go dry,
Nor turnèd be another way, Till they have drown'd all joys, but those alone,
Which sorrow claimeth for its own.
For sorrow hath its joys: and I am glad
That I would grieve, if I do not :
And sorrowful, this day, my lot
Uncapable of all relief.
No grief was like that, which he grieved for me,
A greater grief than can be told :
If I could grieve so, as I would :
And will accept, that died for me.
Lord, as thy grief and death for me are mine,
For thou hast given them unto me;
For they are wrought only by thee.
With that, which thou thyself hast raised.
THE RESURRECTION, OR EASTER-DAY.
UP, and away,
before. Why dost thou stay,
Dull soul ? Behold, the door Is
open, and his Precept bids thee rise, Whose power hath vanquish'd all thine enemies. ,
Say not, I live,
Whilst in the grave thou liest : He that doth give
Thee life would have thee prize 't More highly than to keep it buried, where Thou canst not make the fruits of it appear.
And dust so pleasant to thee, That happiness,
And heaven, cannot woo thee, To shake thy shackles off, and leave behind thee Those fetters, which to death and hell do bind thee?
In vain thou say'st,
Thou art buried with thy Saviour,
To show, by thy behaviour,
Early he rose,
And with him brought the day,
Frighted out of the way:
Open thine eyes,
Sin-seized soul, and see What cobweb-ties
They are, that trammel thee; Not profits, pleasures, honours, as thou thinkest; But loss, pain, shame, at which thou vainly winkest,
All that is good
Thy Saviour dearly bought
And it must there be sought,
THE ASCENSION, OR HOLY THURSDAY.
MOUNT, mount, my soul, and climb, or rather fly
With all thy force on high, Thy Saviour rose not only, but ascended
And he must be attended Both in his conquest and his triumph too.
His glories strongly woo His graces to them, and will not appear In their full lustre, until both be there,
Where he now sits, not for himself alone,
But that upon his throne All his redeemèd may attendants be,
Robed, and crown'd as he. Kings without Courtiers are lone men, they say ;
And dost thou think to stay Behind on earth, whilst thy King reigns in heaven, Yet not be of thy happiness bereaven?
Nothing that thou canst think worth having 's here.
Nothing is wanting there,
And, above all the rest,
Higher than what is high’st.
But tower, my soul, and soar above the skies,
Where thy true treasure lies.