]
What hart can feel least touch of so sore launch,
Or thought can think the depth of so deare wound?
Whose bleeding sourse their streames yet never staunch,
But stil do flow, and freshly still redownd*, 165
To heale the sores of sinfull soules unsound,
And clense the guilt of that infected cryme,
Which was enrooted in all fleshly slyme.
[* _Redownd_, overflow.]
O blessed Well of Love! O Floure of Grace!
O glorious Morning-Starre! O Lampe of Light! 170
Most lively image of thy Fathers face,
Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might,
Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight*,
How can we thee requite for all this good?
Or what can prize** that thy most precious blood? 175
[* _Behight_, named.]
[** _Prize_, price.]
Yet nought thou ask'st in lieu of all this love
But love of us, for guerdon of thy paine:
Ay me! what can us lesse than that behove?
Had he required life for us againe,
Had it beene wrong to ask his owne with game? 180
He gave us life, he it restored lost;
Then life were least, that us so little cost.
But he our life hath left unto us free,
Free that was thrall, and blessed that was band*;
Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee, 185
As he himselfe hath lov'd us afore-hand,
And bound therto with an eternall band;
Him first to love that was so dearely bought,
And next our brethren, to his image wrought.
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