by Henry Vaughan

LORD, when Thou didst Thyself undress,
    Laying by Thy robes of glory,
To make us more, Thou wouldst be less,
    And becam'st a woful story.

To put on clouds instead of light,
    And clothe the morning-star with dust,
Was a translation of such height
    As, but in Thee, was ne'er express'd.

Brave worms and earth ! that thus could have
    A God enclos'd within your cell,
Your Maker pent up in a grave,
    Life lock'd in death, heav'n in a shell !

Ah, my dear Lord ! what couldst thou spy
    In this impure, rebellious clay,
That made Thee thus resolve to die
    For those that kill Thee every day ?

O what strange wonders could Thee move
    To slight Thy precious blood, and breath ?
Sure it was love, my Lord ! for love
    Is only stronger far than death !

Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 51.

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