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Poem by Richard Crashaw
Charitas Nimia; or, The Dear Bargain
Lord, what is man? why should he cost Thee So dear? what had his ruin lost Thee? Lord, what is man, that Thou hast over-bought So much a thing of naught? Love is too kind, I see, and can Make but a simple merchant-man. 'Twas for such sorry merchandise Bold painters have put out his eyes. Alas, sweet Lord! what were't to Thee If there were no such worms as we? Heav'n ne'er the less still Heav'n would be, Should mankind dwell In the deep hell. What have his woes to do with Thee? Let him go weep O'er his own wounds; Seraphims will not sleep, Nor spheres let fall their faithful rounds. Still would the youthful spirits sing, And still Thy spacious palace ring; Still would those beauteous ministers of light Burn all as bright, And bow their flaming heads before Thee; Still thrones and dominations would adore Thee. Still would those ever-wakeful sons of fire Keep warm Thy praise Both nights and days, And teach Thy loved name to their noble lyre. Let froward dust then do its kind, And give itself for sport to the proud wind. Why should a piece of peevish clay plead shares In the eternity of Thy old cares? Why shouldst Thou bow Thy awful breast to see What mine own madnesses have done with me? Should not the king still keep his throne Because some desperate fool's undone? Or will the world's illustrious eyes Weep for every worm that dies? Will the gallant sun E'er the less glorious run? Will he hang down his golden head, Or e'er the sooner seek his western bed, Because of some foolish fly Grows wanton, and will die? If I were lost in misery, What was it to Thy heaven and Thee? What was it to Thy precious blood If my foul heart called for a flood? What if my faithless soul and I Would needs fall in With guilt and sin; What did the Lamb that He should die? What did the Lamb that He should need, When the wolf sins, Himself to bleed? If my base lust Bargained with death and well-beseeming dust, Why should the white Lamb's bosom write The purple name Of my sin's shame? Why should His unstrained breast make good My blushes with His own heart-blood? O my Saviour, make me see How dearly Thou has paid for me; That, lost again, my life may prove, As then in death, so now in love.
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