The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/The Thanksgiving
For works with similar titles, see Thanksgiving.
¶ The Thanksgiving.
OH King of grief! (a title strange, yet true,To thee of all kings onely due)Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee,Who in all grief preventest me?Shall I weep bloud? why, thou hast wept such storeThat all thy bodie was one doore.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 dolefull storie,And side with thy triumphant glorie?Shall thy strokes be my stroking? thorns, my flower?Thy rod, my posie? crosse, my bower?But how then shall I imitate thee, andCopie thy fair, though bloudie hand?Surely I will revenge me on thy love,And trie who shall victorious prove.If thou dost give me wealth; I will restoreAll back unto thee by the poore.If thou dost give me honour; men shall seeThe honour doth belong to thee.I will not marry; or, if she be mine,She and her children shall be thine.My bosome 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 Chappell, die or live.As for thy passion—But of that anon,When with the other I have done.For thy predestination, I'le contrive,That three yeares hence, if I survive, I'le build a spittle, or mend common wayes,But mend mine own without delayes.Then I will use the works of thy creation,As if I us'd them but for fashion.The world and I will quarrell; and the yeareShall not perceive, that I am here.My musick shall finde thee, and ev'ry stringShall have his attribute to sing;That all together may accord in thee,And prove one God, one harmonie.If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appeare,If thou hast giv'n it me, 'tis here.Nay, I will reade thy book, and never moveTill I have found therein thy love;Thy art of love, which I'le turn back on thee,O my deare Saviour, Victorie!Then for thy passion—I will do for that—Alas, my God, I know not what.