Christ.

I crawl, I creep; my Christ, I come
To Thee for curing balsamum:
Thou hast, nay more, Thou art the tree
Affording salve of sovereignty.
My mouth I'll lay unto Thy wound
Bleeding, that no blood touch the ground:
For, rather than one drop shall fall
To waste, my JESU, I'll take all.

He that is hurt seeks help: sin is the wound;
The salve for this i' th' Eucharist is found.

Justly our dearest Saviour may abhor us,
Who hath more suffered by us far, than for us.

Some salve to every sore we may apply;
Only for my wound there's no remedy.
Yet if my Julia kiss me, there will be
A sovereign balm found out to cure me.

Christ, He requires still, wheresoe'er He comes
To feed or lodge, to have the best of rooms:
Give Him the choice; grant Him the nobler part
Of all the house: the best of all's the heart.

Thy former coming was to cure
My soul's most desp'rate calenture;
Thy second advent, that must be
To heal my earth's infirmity.