The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/Sepulchre
For works with similar titles, see Sepulchre.
¶ Sepulchre.
O Blessed bodie! Whither art thou thrown?No lodging for thee, but a cold hard stone?So many hearts on earth, and yet not oneReceive thee?
Sure there is room within our hearts good store;For they can lodge transgressions by the score:Thousands of toyes dwell there, yet out of dooreThey leave thee.
But that which shews them large, shews them unfit.What ever sinne did this pure rock commit,Which holds thee now? Who hath indited itOf murder?
Where our hard hearts have took up stones to brain thee,And missing this, most falsly did arraigne thee;Onely these stones in quiet entertain thee,And order.
And as of old, the Law by heav'nly artWas writ in stone; so thou, which also artThe letter of the word, find'st no fit heartTo hold thee.
Yet do we still persist as we began,And so should perish, but that nothing can,Though it be cold, hard, foul, from loving manWithhold thee.