Show me, dear Christ, thy Spouse, so bright and clear.
What! is it She, which on the other
Goes richly painted? or which, robbed and tore,
Laments and mourns in Germany and here?
Sleeps she a thousand, then peeps up one year?
Is she self-truth and errs? now new, now outwore?
Doth she, and did she, and shall she
On one, on seven, or on no hill appear?
Dwells she with us, or like adventuring
First travail we to seek and then make love?
Betray, kind husband, thy spouse to our sights,
And let mine amorous soul court thy mild dove,
Who is most true and pleasing to thee
When she's embraced and open to most men.
