He is thy gracious friend,
And – O my soul awake! –
Did in pure love descend
To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flow’r of Peace,
The Rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave then thy foolish ranges,
For none can thee secure,
But One who never changes,
Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

There, above noise and danger,
Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles
And One, born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend,
And O my soul awake!
Did in pure love descend
To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flow’r of Peace,
The Rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave then thy foolish ranges,
For none can thee secure
But One who never changes,
Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)

There, above noise and danger,
Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles,
And One born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious Friend
And (O my soul, awake!)
Did in pure love descend,
To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave, then, thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure
But One, who never changes,
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.

Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)

There, above noise and danger,
Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles,
And One born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious Friend
And (O my soul, awake!)
Did in pure love descend,
To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave, then, thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure
But One, who never changes,
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.

Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)

John Davies (1569-1626)

I know my life’s a pain and but a span;
I know my sense is mocked in every thing;
And, to conclude, I know myself a Man,
Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.

John Davies (1569-1626)

Thomas Campion (1567-1620)

Thomas Campion (1567-1620)

Thomas Campion (1567-1620)

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven’s high Paradise,
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessèd only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!

Thomas Campion (1567-1620)

John Gibson Lockhart (1794-1854)

Beyond the sphere of Time
And Sin, and Fate's control,
Serene in changeless prime
Of body and soul.

That creed I fain would keep,
That hope I'll ne'er forgo;
Eternal be the sleep,
If not to waken so.

John Gibson Lockhart (1794-1854)

John Gibson Lockhart (1794-1854)

Beyond the sphere of Time
And Sin, and Fate’s control,
Serene in changeless prime
Of body and of soul.

That creed I fain would keep
That hope I’ll ne’er forgo—
Eternal be the sleep,
If not to waken so.

John Gibson Lockhart (1794-1854)

John Donne (1572-1631)

John Donne (1572-1631)

All whom the flood did and fire shall overthrow
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 apace,
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 Thoud’st sealed my pardon with
Thy blood.

John Donne (1572-1631)

Psalm 39: 5-15

Thou hast made my days as it were a span long;
And mine age is as nothing, in respect of Thee,
And verily, ev’ry man living is altogether vanity.

For man walketh in a vain shadow,
And disquieteth himself in vain,
He heapeth up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them.

And now, Lord, what is my hope?
Truly my hope is even in Thee.

Deliver me from all mine offences
And make me not a rebuke to the foolish.

I became dumb and opened not my mouth
For it was Thy doing.

Take Thy plague away from me,
I am even consumed by means of Thy heavy hand.

When Thou with rebukes does chasten man for sin
Thou makest his beauty to consume away,
Like as it were a moth, fretting a garment;
Ev’ry man therefore is but vanity.

Hear my pray’r, O Lord,
And with Thy ears consider my calling,
Hold not Thy peace at my tears!
For I am a stranger with Thee and a sojourner,
As all my fathers were.

O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength
Before I go hence and be no more seen.

Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)