On the bleeding wounds of our crucified Lord.

IEsu, no more, it is full tide
From thy hands and from thy feet,
From thy head, and from thy side,
All thy Purple Rivers meet.

Thy restlesse feet they cannot goe.
For us and our eternall good
As they are wont; what though?
They swim, alas! in their owne flood.

Thy hand to give thou canst not lift;
Yet will thy hand still giving bee;
It gives, but ô it self's the Guift,
It drops though bound, though bound 'tis free.

But ô thy side! thy deepe dig'd side
That hath a double Nilus going,
Nor ever was the Pharian t…de
Halfe so fruitfull, halfe so flowing.

What need thy faire head beare a part
In Teares? as if thine eyes had none?
What need they helpe to drowne thine heart,
That strives in Torrents of its owne?

Water'd by the showres they bring,
The thornes that thy blest browes encloses
(A cruell and a costly spring)
Conceive proud hopes of proving Roses.

Not a haire but payes his River
To this Red Sea of thy blood,
Their little channels can deliver
Something to the generall flood.

But while I speake, whither are run
All the Rivers nam'd before?
I counted wrong; there is but one,
But ô that one is one all'ore.

Raine-swolne Rivers may rise proud
Threatning all to overflow,
But when indeed all's overflow'd
They themselves are drowned too.

This thy Bloods deluge (a dire chance
Deare Lord to thee) to us is found
A deluge of deliverance,
A deluge least we should be drown'd.

Nere was't thou in a sence so sadly true,
The well of living Waters, Lord, till now.