Now He yieldeth, now He falleth, As thy passion on Him calleth: Press thee nigher still and nigher, Urge thee higher still and higher; Cleave and cling, nor let thy hand Cease to plead, nor fearing stand. He thy triumph sees with gladness, Loves thee in thy clinging sadness; Seems thy foe, yet ne'ertheless Yearns in His heart of love to bless; Willing bears thy every blow, That from His own pow'r doth flow; Loves to hear thy interceding, His own voice within thee pleading. Ah, this seeming en'my of thine, Of fierceness giveth thee no sign; For Love no grim soldier is, Rough and severe, denying bliss. Eas'ly is that victory won, When the foe seeks to be undone. G. XXXVII. _Quare comedit Magister vester cum peccatoribus, &c._ Matt. ix. 11. Siccine fraternos fastidis, improbe, morbos, Cum tuus, et gravior, te quoque morbus habet? Tantum ausus medicum morbus sibi quaerere, magnus; Tantum ausus medicum spernere, major erat. _Wherefore eateth your Master with sinners, &c._ Dost loathe thy brother, Pharisee, Since his disease to Christ he brings? And knowest not that all men see Disease to thee more deadly clings? That he dare seek Healer so great, Shows great his disease to be; That thou dar'st scorn on Him to wait, Shows a greater cleaves to thee. G. XXXVIII. _In febricitantem et hydropicum sanatos._ Marc. i. 30, 31; Luc. xiv. 2-4. Nuper lecta gravem extinxit pia pagina febrem, Hydropi siccos dat modo lecta sinus. Haec vice fraterna quam se miracula tangunt, Atque per alternum fida juvamen amant! Quippe ignes istos his quam bene mersit in undis, Ignibus his illas quam bene vicit aquas! _Miracles of healing the men sick of fever and of dropsy._ We read within the sacred page Christ quench'd a fever's burning rage; Read that a dropsy's swollen flood Ebb'd at His word e'en as He stood. Well join'd these mir'cles each to other, As loving brother unto brother: How well these waters drown'd that flame, That fire these waters overcame! G. XXXIX. _In S. Lucam medicum._ Col. iv. 14. Hanc, mihi quam miseram faciunt mea crimina vitam, Hanc, medici, longam vestra medela facit. Hoc'ne diu est vixisse? diu, mihi credite, non est Hoc vixisse; diu sed timuisse mori. Tu foliis, Medice alme, tuis medicamina praebes, Et medicaminibus, quae mala summa, malis. Hoc mortem bene vitare est, vitare ferendo. Et vixisse diu est hoc, cito posse mori. _To St. Luke the physician._