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Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art still Constant unto it, making it to be
A point of honour, now to grieve in me,
And in thy members suffer ill.
They who lament one cross, Thou dying daily, praise thee to thy loss.
BRIGHT spark, shot from a brighter place, Where beams surround my Saviour's face, Canst thou be any where
So well as there ?
Yet, if thou wilt from thence depart,
First with thy fire-work burn to dust
And make it shine.
So disengaged from sin and sickness,
Then with our trinity of light,
Motion, and heat, let's take our flight
Unto the place where thou
Before didst bow.
Get me a standing there, and place
Among the beams, which crown the face
That so among the rest I may
Glitter, and curl, and wind as they :
Sure thou wilt joy, by gaining me
O DAY most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world's bud, Th' indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his blood; The couch of time; care's balm and bay; The week were dark, but for thy light: Thy Torch doth show the way.
The other days and thou
Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Man had straight forward gone
We could not choose but look on still;
Sundays the pillars are,
On which heaven's palace arched lies:
Which parts their ranks and orders.
The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on time's string,
More plentiful than hope.
This day my Saviour rose,
And did enclose this light for his :
Who want herbs for their wound.
The Rest of our Creation
Our great Redeemer did remove
With the same shake, which at his passion
Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,
The brightness of that day
We sullied by our foul offence:
Wherefore that robe we cast away,
Having a new at his expense,
Whose drops of blood paid the full price,
Thou art a day of mirth:
And where the week-days trail on ground,
O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
MONEY, thou bane of bliss, and source of woe,
Whence comest thou, that thou art so fresh and fine? I know thy parentage is base and low : Man found thee poor and dirty in a mine.
Surely thou didst so little contribute
To this great kingdom, which thou now hast got,
Then forcing thee, by fire he made thee bright:
Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich; And while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch.
How well her name an Army doth present,
TO ALL ANGELS AND SAINTS.
O GLORIOUS Spirits, who after all your bands
Where every one is king, and hath his crown,
Not out of envy or maliciousness
I would address
My vows to thee most gladly, blessed Maid,
Thou art the holy mine, whence came the gold,
In young and old;
Thou art the cabinet where the jewel lay: