Cantiones mysticae

Wilt thou love God, as he thee? Then digest, 
My soul, this wholesome meditation, 
How God the Spirit, by angels waited on 
In heaven, doth make his Temple in thy breast. 
The Father having begot a Son most blest, 
And still begetting, (for he ne'er be gone) 
Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption, 
Co-heir t' his glory, and Sabbath' endless rest. 
And as a robbed man, which by search doth find 
His stol'n stuff sold, must lose or buy 't again: 
The Son of glory came down, and was slain, 
Us whom he'd made, and Satan stol'n, to unbind. 
'Twas much that man was made like God before, 
But, that God should be made like man, much more. 

Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?
Repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste,
I runne to death, and death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday;
I dare not move my dim eyes anyway,
Despaire behind, and death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By sinne in it, which it t'wards Hell doth weigh;
Onely thou art above, and when t'wards thee
By thy leave I can looke, I rise againe;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
That not one houre myselfe can I sustaine;
Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art,
And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart.

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow 
Your trumpets, angels, and arise 
From death, you numberless infinities 
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow
All whom war, death, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance hath slain; and you whose eyes 
Shall behold God and never taste death's woe,
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space,
For, if above all these my sins abound,
'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace,
When we are there. Here on this lowly ground,
Teach me how to repent, for that's as good
As if Thou hadst seal'd my pardon with Thy blood.