Alas what is thys? for I castynge myne eyes on hygh, ded se thy goodnesse, so vnknowne grace, & loue so incomprehēsyble that my syght is wonderfull. Than am I constrayned to loke downe, & in so lokynge downewarde, I do se what I am, and what I was wyllynge to be. Alas I do se in it, the lewdenesse, darkenesse, and extreme depenesse of my euyll. My deathe whych by hūblenesse closeth myne eye. The admyrable goodnesse of the, & the vnspeakeable euyll whych is in me, Thy ryght hyghnes & pure maiestie, my ryght fragyle and mortall nature, Thy gyftes, goodes, & beatytude, my malyce & great vnkyndnesse. O how good thu arte vnto me, and how vnkynde am I to the? Thys that thu wylte, and thys that I pursue. Whych thynges consydered, causeth me to maruele, how it pleasyth the to ioyne thy selfe to me, seynge there is no comparyson betwene vs both. [Sidenote: Esa. 64.] [Sidenote: Colos. 2.] Thu arte my God, and I am thy worke, thu my creator, and I thy creature. Now to speake breuely, though I can not defyne what it is to be of the, yet knowe I my selfe to be the least thynge that maye be compared vnto the, O loue, thu madyst thys agrement whan thu dedyst ioyne lyfe, and deathe togyther. But the vnyon hath made alyue deathe. Lyfe dyenge, and lyfe without ende, haue made our deathe a lyfe. Deathe hath geuen vnto lyfe a quyckenesse. Through suche deathe I beynge dead, receyued lyfe, and by deathe I am rauyshed with hym whych is alyue. I lyue in the, and as for me, of my selfe I am dead. And as cōcernynge the bodyly deathe, it is nothynge els vnto me, but a cōmynge out of pryson. Deathe is lyfe vnto me. For through deathe, I am alyue. Thys mortall lyfe fylleth me full of care, and sorowe, and deathe yeldeth me content. [Sidenote: Apoca. 14.] [Sidenote: Roma. 8.] O what a goodly thynge it is to dye, whych causeth my sowle to lyue. In delyuerynge her frō thys mortall deathe, it exēpteth her frō the deathe myserable, & matcheth her with a most myghty louer, & vnlesse she thus dyeth, she lāguyssheth alwayes. Is not thā the sowle blameles, whych wolde fayne dye for to haue suche lyfe? Yes trulye, & she ought to call deathe her welbeloued, frynde O swete deathe, plesaunt sorowe, myghty keye delyuerynge from all wyckednesse. Those whych trusted in the (o lorde) and in thy deathe, were mortyfyed, because they ded trust in the, and in thy passyon. For with a swete slepe thu dedyst put them oute of that deathe whych causeth manye to lamente. O how happye is the same slepe vnto hym, whych whan he awaketh, doth fynde through thy deathe, the lyfe euerlastynge. For the deathe is nō other thynge to a christen man, but a lyberte or delyueraunce from hys mortall bande. [Sidenote: Roma. 7.] [Sidenote: Psal. 35.] [Sidenote: Ioan. 15.]