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.

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Footnotes:

[97] they [who]

[98] white, put for whitest