THE THANKSGIVING.
Oh King of grief! a title strange yet true,
To thee of all kings only due!
Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee,
Who in all grief preventest me? _goest before me._
Shall I weep blood? Why, thou hast wept such store,
That all thy body was one gore.
Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold?
'Tis but to tell the tale is told.
_My God, my God, why dost thou part from me?_
Was such a grief as cannot be.
Shall I then sing, skipping thy doleful story,
And side with thy triumphant glory?
Shall thy strokes be my stroking? thorns my flower?
Thy rod, my posy?[101] cross, my bower?
But how then shall I imitate thee, and
Copy thy fair, though bloody hand?
Surely I will revenge me on thy love,
And try who shall victorious prove.
If thou dost give me wealth, I will restore
All back unto thee by the poor.
If thou dost give me honour, men shall see
The honour doth belong to thee.
I will not marry; or if she be mine,
She and her children shall be thine.
My bosom-friend, if he blaspheme thy name,
I will tear thence his love and fame.
One half of me being gone, the rest I give
Unto some chapel--die or live.
As for my Passion[102]--But of that anon,
When with the other I have done.
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