Confusion Of Face.

The shame of man's face is no more
Than prayers repell'd, says Cassiodore.

God ne'er afflicts us more than our desert,
Though He may seem to overact His part:
Sometimes He strikes us more than flesh can bear;
But yet still less than grace can suffer here.

'Tis heresy in others: in your face
That scar's no schism, but the sign of grace.

Do with me, God, as Thou didst deal with John,
Who writ that heavenly Revelation.
Let me, like him, first cracks of thunder hear,
Then let the harps enchantments stroke mine ear:
Here give me thorns, there, in Thy kingdom, set
Upon my head the golden coronet;
There give me day; but here my dreadful night:
My sackcloth here; but there my stole of white.

Though Thou be'st all that active love
Which heats those ravished souls above;
And though all joys spring from the glance
Of Thy most winning countenance;
Yet sour and grim Thou'dst seem to me
If through my Christ I saw not Thee.

'Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend
Him, as He is, is labour without end.