Satan
Below the bottom of the great Abyss,
There where one centre reconciles all things,
The world's profound heart pants; there placed
Mischief's old Master! close about him clingsA curled knot of embracing snakes, that
His correspondent cheeks: these loathsome
Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties,
Fast bound since first he forfeited the skies.
Heaven's golden-winged herald late he
To a poor Galilean virgin sent;
How long the bright youth bowed, and with what
Immortal flowers to her fair hand present:
He saw the old Hebrew's womb neglect the
Of age and barrenness; and her Babe prevent His birth by his devotion, who
Betimes to be a saint before a man!
Yet, on the other side, fain would he start Above his fears, and think it cannot be:
He studies Scripture, strives to sound the
And feel the pulse of every prophecy,
He knows, but knows not how, or by what
The heaven-expecting ages hope to seeA mighty Babe, whose pure, unspotted
From a chaste virgin womb should bless the earth!
But these vast mysteries his senses smother,
And reason, — for what's faith to him! — devour,
How she that is a maid should prove a mother,
Yet keep inviolate her virgin flower:
How God's eternal Son should be man's brother,
Poseth his proudest intellectual power;
How a pure spirit should incarnate be,
And life itself wear death's frail livery.
That the great angel-blinding light should
His blaze, to shine in a poor shepherd's eye;
That the unmeasured God so low should
As prisoner in a few poor rags to lie; milk should drink,
Who feeds with nectar Heaven's fair family;
That a vile manger his low bed should
Who in a throne of stars thunders above.
That He whom the sun serves, should faintly
Through clouds of infant flesh: that He the
Eternal Word would be a child, and weep;
That He who made the fire should feel the cold;
That Heaven's high Majesty his court should
In a clay-cottage, by each blast controlled:
That Glory's self should serve our griefs and fears:
And free Eternity submit to years.
Richard Crashaw
Other author posts
On the Baptized Ethiopian
Let it no longer be a forlorn hope To wash an Ethiop : He's wash'd, his gloomy skin a peaceful shade For his white soul is made : And now, I doubt not, the Eternal Dove A black-faced house will love...
On the Sepulchre of our Lord
Here, where our Lord once laid his Head, Now the grave lies buried
The Widows Mites
Two mites, two drops, yet all her house and land, Fall from a steady heart, though trembling hand : The other's wanton wealth foams high, and brave ; The other cast away, she only gave
On the still surviving Marks of our Saviours
Whatever story of their cruelty, Or nail, or thorn, or spear have writ in Thee, Are in another sense Still legible ; Sweet is the difference : Once I did spell Every red letter A wound of Thine ; Now, what is better, Balsam for mine ...