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 scourgéd, flouted, boxéd, 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. For thy Predestination, I'll contrive That, three years hence, if I survive,[103] I'll build a spital, or mend common ways, But mend my own without delays. Then I will use the works of thy creation, As if I used them but for fashion. The world and I will quarrel; and the year Shall not perceive that I am here. My music shall find thee, and every string Shall have his attribute to sing, _its._ That all together may accord in thee, And prove one God, one harmony. If thou shall give me wit, it shall appear; If thou hast given it me, 'tis here. Nay, I will read thy book,[104] and never move Till I have found therein thy love-- Thy art of love, which I'll turn back on thee: O my dear Saviour, Victory! Then for my Passion--I will do for that-- Alas, my God! I know not what. With the preceding must be taken the following, which comes immediately after it. THE REPRISAL. I have considered it, and find There is no dealing with thy mighty Passion; For though I die for thee, I am behind: My sins deserve the condemnation. O make me innocent, that I May give a disentangled state and free; And yet thy wounds still my attempts defy, For by thy death I die for thee. Ah! was it not enough that thou By thy eternal glory didst outgo me? Couldst thou not grief's sad conquest me allow, But in all victories overthrow me? Yet by confession will I come Into the conquest: though I can do nought Against thee, in thee I will overcome The man who once against thee fought.