The Incarnation, and Passion

LORD, when Thou didst Thyself undress,
Laying by Thy robes of glory,
To make us more, Thou wouldst be less,
And becam’st a woful story.
To put on clouds instead of light,
And clothe the morning—star with dust,
Was a translation of such height
As, but in Thee, was ne’er express’d.
Brave worms and earth! that thus could have
A God enclos’d within your cell,
Your Maker pent up in a grave,
Life lock’d in death, heav’n in a shell!
Ah, my dear Lord! what couldst thou spy
In this impure, rebellious clay,
That made Thee thus resolve to die
For those that kill Thee every day?
O what strange wonders could Thee move
To slight Thy precious blood, and breath?
Sure it was love, my Lord! for love
Is only stronger far than death!
Other works by Henry Vaughan...