MARY SEEKING JESUS WHEN LOST. St. Luke ii. 41-52: _Quærit Jesum suum Maria_, &c. (v. 44.) And is He gone, Whom these armes held but now? Their hope, their vow! Did euer greife and joy in one poore heart Soe soone change part? Hee's gone! The fair'st flower that e're bosome drest; My soule's sweet rest. My wombe's chast pride is gone, my heauen-borne boy; And where is joy? Hee's gone! and His lou'd steppes to wait vpon, My joy, is gone. My joyes, and Hee are gone; my greife, and I Alone must ly. Hee's gone! not leaving with me, till He come, One smile at home. Oh come then, bring Thy mother her lost joy: Oh come, sweet boy! Make hast, and come, or e're my greife and I Make hast, and dy. Peace, heart! The heauens are angry, all their spheres Rivall thy teares. I was mistaken, some faire sphere or other Was Thy blest mother. What but the fairest heauen, could owne the birth Of soe faire earth? Yet sure Thou did'st lodge heere: this wombe of mine Was once call'd Thine! Oft haue these armes Thy cradle envied, Beguil'd Thy bed. Oft to Thy easy eares hath this shrill tongue Trembled, and sung. Oft haue I wrapt Thy slumbers in soft aires, And stroak't Thy cares. Oft hath this hand those silken casements kept, While their sunnes slept. Oft haue my hungry kisses made Thine eyes Too early rise. Oft haue I spoild my kisses' daintiest diet, To spare Thy quiet. Oft from this breast to Thine, my loue-tost heart Hath leapt, to part. Oft my lost soule haue I bin glad to seeke On Thy soft cheeke. Oft haue these armes--alas!--show'd to these eyes Their now lost joyes. Dawne then to me, Thou morne of mine owne day, And lett heauen stay. Oh, would'st Thou heere still fixe Thy faire abode, My bosome God: What hinders, but my bosome still might be Thy heauen to Thee? THE WOUNDS OF THE LORD JESUS. IN CICATRICES DOMINI JESU.