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But by my death cannot be satisfy'd
My sins, which pass the Jews' impiety:
They kill'd once an inglorious man, but I
Crucify him daily, being now glorify'd.
O let me then his strange love still admire.
Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment;
As Jacob came, cloth'd in vile harsh attire,
But to supplant, and with gainful intent:

God cloth'd himself in vile man's flesh, that so
He might be weak enough to suffer 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

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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 sinn'd, 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 ty'd,
For us, his creatures and his foes, hath dy'd.

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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 crucify'd, and tell

Whether his countenance can thee affright;
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light;

Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierc'd head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell
Which pray'd 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

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A sign of rigour, so I say to thee:

To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign'd;
This beauteous form assumes a piteous mind.

XIV.

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BATTER my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend,
That I may rise and stand; o'erthrow me', and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new,
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,

Labour t'admit you, but, oh! to no end:
Reason, your viceroy' in me, we should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue;
Yet dearly. I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy.

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Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again;
Take me to you, imprison me; for I,
Except you' enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

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XV.

WILT thou love God as he thee? then digest,
My Soul! this wholesome meditation,

How God the Spirit, by angels waited on
In heav'n, doth make his temple in thy breast.
The Father having begot a Son most biest,
And still begetting, (for he ne'er begun)
Hath deign'd to chuse thee by adoption,
Coheir to' his glory', and Sabbath's endless rest:
And as a robb'd man, which by search doth find
His stol'n stuff sold, must lose or buy 't again;
The Son of Glory came down and was slain,
Us, whom he 'had made, and Satan stole, t'unbind.
'Twas much that man was made like God before,
But that God should be made like man much more. 14

XVI.

FATHER, part of his double interest

Unto thy kingdom thy Son gives to me;

His jointure, in the knotty Trinity

He keeps, and gives to me his death's conquest.

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This Lamb, whose death with life the world hath blest,

Was from the world's beginning slain, and he
Hath made two wills which, with the legacy
Of his and thy kingdom, thy sons invest:
Yet such are these laws, that men argue yet
Whether a man those statutes can fulfill:
None doth; but thy all-healing grace and Spirit
Revive again what law and letter kill.
Thy law's abridgment and thy last command

ΤΟ

Is all but love; O, let this last will stand!

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ODE.

I.

VENGEANCE Will sit above our faults; but till

She there to sit

We see her not nor them. Thus blind, yet still
We lead her way; and thus whilst we do ill
We suffer it.

II.

Unhappy he whom youth makes not beware
Of doing ill:

Enough we labour under age and care:

In number th' errors of the last place are
The greatest still.

III.

Yet we, that should the ill we now begin

As soon repent,

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(Strange thing!) perceive not; our faults are not seen, But past us; neither felt, but only in

The punishment.

IV.

But we know ourselves least; mere outward shows

Our minds so store,

That our souls, no more than our eyes, disclose
But form and colour: only he who knows

Himself knows more.

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