Come thou too, thou; kneel by thy Phœnix' tomb; Bring thy poor offerings too, my soul, and come. With thee no herbs and fragrant spice are seen-- Such odorous tribute gave the Magdalene; But these--no herbs nor spices equal them-- These little liquid drops, each tear a gem. One tear is much: thine did not fall in vain, Sweet Magdalene; thou knewest the tears were gain. With these--her Lord's head in amomum laid-- The humble feet the head's despair she made. Now, while her breast moist with such fragrance lies, She in a strife draws sweeter from her eyes. Lord Christ, these tears are well: well fits it too Life's everlasting morn drip with such dew. A. CLXXII. _In cicatrices Domini adhuc superstites._ Luc. xxiv. 31. Arma vides; arcus, pharetramque levesque sagittas, Et quocunque fuit nomine miles Amor. His fuit usus Amor: sed et haec fuit ipse; suumque Et jaculum, et jaculis ipse pharetra suis. Nunc splendent tantum, et deterso pulvere belli E memori pendent nomina magna tholo. Tempus erit tamen, haec irae quando arma pharetramque, Et sobolem pharetrae spicula tradet Amor. Heu, qua tunc anima, quo stabit conscia vultu, Quum scelus agnoscet dextera quaeque suum? Improbe, quae dederis, cernes ibi vulnera, miles, Qua tibi cunque tuus luserit arte furor. Seu digito suadente tuo mala laurus inibat Temporibus; sacrum seu bibit hasta latus: Sive tuo clavi saevum rubuere sub ictu; Seu puduit jussis ire flagella tuis. Improbe, quae dederis, cernes ibi vulnera, miles: Quod dederis vulnus, cernere, vulnus erit. Plaga sui vindex clavosque rependet et hastam: Quoque rependet, erit clavus et hasta sibi. Quis tam terribiles, tam justas moverit iras? Vulnera pugnabunt, Christe, vel ipsa tibi. _On the scars of the Lord still remaining._