Philosophers have measur'd mountains,
Fathom'd the depths of seas, of states and kings;
Walk'd with a staff to heav'n and traced fountains:
But there are two cast, spacious thins,
The which to measure it doth more behove;
Yet few there are that sound them, - Sin and Love.
Who would know Sin, let him repair
Unto Mount Olivet; there shall he see
A Man so wrung with pains, that all His hair,
His skin, His garments bloody be.
Sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain
To hunt his cruel food through ev'ry vein.
Who knows not Love, let him assay
And taste that juice which, on the cross, a pike
Did set abroach; then let him say
If every he did taste the like,
Love is that liquor sweet and most divine,
Which my God feels as blood, but I as wine.
Comments