The Thanksgiving
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h King of grief! (a title strange, yet true,To thee of all kings only due)Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee,Who in all grief preventest me?Shall I weep blood? why thou has wept such storeThat all thy body was one door.Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold?'Tis but to tell the tale is told.'My God, my God, why dost thou part from me? 'Was such a grief as cannot be.Shall I then sing, skipping, thy doleful story,And side with thy triumphant glory?Shall thy strokes be my stroking? thorns, my flower?Thy rod, my posy? cross, my bower?But how then shall I imitate thee, andCopy thy fair, though bloody hand?Surely I will revenge me on thy love,And try who shall victorious prove.If thou dost give me wealth, I will restoreAll back unto thee by the poor.If thou dost give me honour, men shall see,The honour doth belong to thee.I will not marry; or, if she be mine,She and her children shall be thine.My bosom friend, if he blaspheme thy name,I will tear thence his love and fame.One half of me being gone, the rest I giveUnto some Chapel, die or live.As for thy passion - But of that anon,When with the other I have done.For thy predestination I'll contrive,That three years hence, if I survive,I'll build a spittle, or mend common ways,But mend mine own without delays.Then I will use the works of thy creation,As if I us'd them but for fashion.The world and I will quarrel; and the yearShall not perceive, that I am here.My music shall find thee, and ev'ry stringShall have his attribute to sing;That all together may accord in thee,And prove one God, one harmony.If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appear;If thou hast giv'n it me, 'tis here.Nay, I will read thy book, and never moveTill I have found therein thy love;Thy art of love, which I'll turn back on thee,O my dear Saviour, Victory!Then for thy passion - I will do for that -Alas, my God, I know not what.
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