PART III.

CHRIST'S TRIUMPH OVER DEATH.

THE ARGUMENT.

Christ's triumph over death on the cross, expressed, 1st, In general, by his joy to undergo it; singing before he went to the garden, Matt. xxvi. 30-by his grief in the undergoing it-by the obscure fables of the Gentiles typing it-by the cause of it in him, his love-by the effect it should have in us-by the instrument, the cursed tree-2d, Expressed in particular: 1st, By his fore-passion in the gardenby his passion itself amplified; 1st, From the general causes, parts, and effects of it-2d, From the particular causes, parts, and effects of it-in heaven-in the heavenly spirits-in the creatures sub-celestial-in the wicked Jews-in Judas-in the blessed saints, Joseph of Arimathea, &c.

So down the silver streams of Eridan,
On either side bank'd with a lily wall,
Whiter than both rides the triumphant swan,
And sings his dirge, and prophesies his fall,
Diving into his watery funeral:

But Eridan to Cedron must submit

His flowery shore; nor can he envy it,
If when Apollo sings his swans do silent sit.

That heavenly voice I more delight to hear,
Than gentle airs to breathe, or swelling waves
Against the sounding rocks their bosoms tear,
Or whistling reeds, that rutty Jordan laves,
And with their verdure his white head embraves,

To chide the winds, or hiving bees, that fly About the laughing blooms of sallowy, Rocking asleep the idle grooms that lazy lie.

And yet how can I hear thee singing go,
When men, incensed with hate, thy death foreset?
Or else why do I hear thee sighing so,

When thou, inflam'd with love, their life dost get,
That love and hate, and sighs and songs are met:
But thus, and only thus thy love did crave,
To send thee singing for us to thy grave,

While we sought thee to kill, and thou soughtst

us to save.

When I remember Christ our burden bears,
I look for glory, but find misery;

I look for joy, but find a sea of tears;

I look that we should live, and find Him die;
I look for angels' songs, and hear Him cry:
Thus what I look, I cannot find so well;

Or rather, what I find I cannot tell,

These banks so narrow are, those streams so highly swell.

Christ suffers, and in this his tears begin;
Suffers for us and our joys spring in this;
Suffers to death-here is his manhood seen;
Suffers to rise and here his Godhead is,-
For man, that could not by himself have ris',
Out of the grave doth by the Godhead rise,
And God, that could not die, in manhood dies,
That we in both might live by that sweet sacrifice.

Go, giddy brains, whose wits are thought so fresh, Pluck all the flow'rs that nature forth doth throw;

Go, stick them on the cheeks of wanton flesh;
Poor idol (forc'd at once to fall and grow)
Of fading roses, and of melting snow!

Your songs exceed your matter; this of mine

The matter which it sings shall make divineAs stars dull puddles gild, in which their beauties shine.

Who doth not see drown'd in Deucalion's name
(When earth his men, and sea had lost his shore)
Old Noah ? and in Nisus' lock, the fame
Of Sampson yet alive; and long before
In Phaeton's mine own fall I deplore:
But he that conquer'd hell, to fetch again
His virgin widow, by a serpent slain,
Another Orpheus was than dreaming poets feign;

That taught the stones to melt for passion,
And dormant sea, to hear him, silent lie;
And at his voice, the watery nation
To flock, as if they deem'd it cheap, to buy
With their own deaths his sacred harmony:

The while the waves stood still to hear his song, And steady shore wav'd with the reeling throng Of thirsty souls, that hung upon his fluent tongue.

What better friendship, than to cover shame ?
What greater love, than for a friend to die?
Yet this is better, to asself the blame;
And this is greater, for an enemy:
But more than this, to die, not suddenly,

Not with some common death, or easy pain,
But slowly, and with torments to be slain :
O depth without a depth, far better seen than
say'n!

And yet the Son is humbled for the slave,
And yet the slave is proud before the Son:
Yet the Creator for his creature gave

Himself, and yet the creature hastes to run
From his Creator, and self-good doth shun;
And yet the Prince, and God himself doth cry
To man, his traitor, pardon not to fly :
Yet man is God, and traitor doth his Prince defy.

Who is it sees not that he nothing is,

But he that nothing sees? What weaker breast, Since Adam's armour fail'd, dares warrant his ? That, made by God of all his creatures best, Straight made himself the worst of all the rest : If any strength we have, it is to ill;

But all the good is God's, both power and will: The dead man cannot rise, though he himself may kill.

A tree was first the instrument of strife,
Where Eve to sin her soul did prostitute;
A tree is now the instrument of life,

Though ill that trunk, and this fair body suit:
Ah cursed tree, and yet O blessed fruit!

That death to Him, this life to us doth give:
Strange is the cure, when things past cure re-

vive,

And the Physician dies to make the patient live.

Sweet Eden was the arbour of delight,
Yet in his honey flowers our poison blew ;
Sad Gethsemane the bower of baleful night,
Where Christ a health of poison for us drew,
Yet all our honey in that poison grew :