M. Lord Westmoreland Each thing below here hath its day, As in the Proverb's said; And so it comes to pass that they [97] Conquer are Conqueréd. For He who for man's fault assign'd Death, and a Grave's reward, Was pleased those bands for to unbind, And so Himself not spared; But issuing forth His heavenly throne, Vouchsafes the earth to bless, And became here a little One, To make our crimes go less: Not that our disobedience can In weight or measure shrink, But that this Great Physician Before us takes the drink, That bitter potión we had Deserved to quaff; and thus He weeps Himself, and becomes sad To purchase joy for us. And more than so: for everyone Will for his friend lay down Some spark of love: but He alone His enemies to crown Refused not Death; so deep from high His mercies did extend; And if you ask the reason why, 'Twas mere for Mercy's end. Yet that grim Death and mouldy Grave No longer be His prison Than He Himself alone would have, He bides not there, but's risen, And if we would as Conquerors rise With Him who vanquish'd those, We must not fear, where danger lies, For Him all to expose, But though the grave do open stand And persecutions reign At Hell's desire and Death's command, Look on our Sovereign. His Banner doth present the Cross He bore, and bare Him too For us; and we must count it loss To fail what He did do. Thus Sin and Hell, the Grave and Death, Must quit the field and fly, Whilst, in contempt of borrow'd breath, We'd live Eternally. -- Thrice happy day, whereon the Sun Of Righteousness did rise, And such a glorious conquest won, By being our Sacrifice! And as unhappy he, that shall Not find the white [98] and best Of Stones, to mark the same withal, And prize't above the rest. Footnotes: [97] they [who] [98] white, put for whitest |