His Coming To The Sepulchre.

Hence they have borne my Lord; behold! the stone
Is rolled away and my sweet Saviour's gone.
Tell me, white angel, what is now become
Of Him we lately sealed up in this tomb?
Is He, from hence, gone to the shades beneath,
To vanquish hell as here He conquered death?
If so, I'll thither follow without fear,
And live in hell if that my Christ stays there.

Of all the good things whatsoe'er we do,
God is the {ARCHÊ}, and the {TELOS} too.

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick was a 17th-century English lyric poet and cleric. He is known for his book of poems, "Hesperides," which includes the carpe diem poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." His works are noted for their clarity, simplicity, and musical quality. Herrick was also a vicar of Dean Prior in Devon, despite being ejected during the English Civil War and later reinstated.

Robert Herrick

His Tears To Thamesis.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Grubs.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Shame No Statist.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Blinks. Epig.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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To His Saviour's Sepulchre: His Devotion.

Hail, holy and all-honour'd tomb,
By no ill haunted; here I come,
With shoes put off, to tread thy room.
I'll not profane by soil of sin
Thy door as I do enter in;
For I have washed both hand and heart,
This, that, and every other part,
So that I dare, with far less fear
Than full affection, enter here.
Thus, thus I come to kiss Thy stone
With a warm lip and solemn one:
And as I kiss I'll here and there
Dress Thee with flow'ry diaper.
How sweet this place is! as from hence
Flowed all Panchaia's frankincense;
Or rich Arabia did commix,
Here, all her rare aromatics.
Let me live ever here, and stir
No one step from this sepulchre.
Ravish'd I am! and down I lie
Confused in this brave ecstasy.
Here let me rest; and let me have
This for...

Robert Herrick

This Crosstree

              This   crosstree   here
              Doth    Jesus      bear,
              Who   sweet'ned   first
              The   death   accurs'd.
Here all things ready are, make haste, make haste away;
For long this  work will be,  and very short  this day.
Why then,  go on to  act:  here's  wonders to be  done
Before the last  least sand of  Thy ninth  hour be run;
Or ere dark  clouds do dull  or dead the mid-day's sun.
              Act  when   Thou  wilt,
              Blood  will  be  spilt;
              Pure  balm, that  shall
              Bring  health  to  all.
              Why     then,    begin
              To   pour   first   in
              Some   drops  of  wine,
              Instead    of    brine,
              To   search  the ...

Robert Herrick

To 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.

Robert Herrick

To Anthea

Now is the time when all the lights wax dim;
And thou, Anthea, must withdraw from him
Who was thy servant:    Dearest, bury me
Under that holy-oak, or gospel-tree;
Where, though thou see'st not, thou may'st think upon
Me, when thou yearly go'st procession;
Or, for mine honour, lay me in that tomb
In which thy sacred reliques shall have room;
For my embalming, Sweetest, there will be
No spices wanting, when I'm laid by thee.

Robert Herrick

His Saviour's Words Going To The Cross.

Have, have ye no regard, all ye
Who pass this way, to pity Me,
Who am a man of misery!

A man both bruis'd, and broke, and one
Who suffers not here for Mine own,
But for My friends' transgression!

Ah! Sion's daughters, do not fear
The cross, the cords, the nails, the spear,
The myrrh, the gall, the vinegar;

For Christ, your loving Saviour, hath
Drunk up the wine of God's fierce wrath;
Only there's left a little froth,

Less for to taste than for to show
What bitter cups had been your due,
Had He not drank them up for you.

Robert Herrick

To His Ever-Loving God.

Can I not come to Thee, my God, for these
So very many meeting hindrances,
That slack my pace, but yet not make me stay?
Who slowly goes, rids, in the end, his way.
Clear Thou my paths, or shorten Thou my miles,
Remove the bars, or lift me o'er the stiles;
Since rough the way is, help me when I call,
And take me up; or else prevent the fall.
I ken my home, and it affords some ease
To see far off the smoking villages.
Fain would I rest, yet covet not to die
For fear of future biting penury:
No, no, my God, Thou know'st my wishes be
To leave this life, not loving it, but Thee.

Robert Herrick