What eye dare search the brightness of the sun?
What pencil draw it?
What Conception is clean enough Thy pureness to decry,
Or strong enough to speak Thy dignity,
Blest Mother of our Lord whose happy state
None but an angel’s tongue did first relate?
Thou wert on earth a star most heavenly bright,
That didst bring the Sun that leant Thee light:
An earthyl Vessel full of heavenly Grace,
That broughtst forth life to Adam’s dying race.
For God on earth Thou wert a Royal Throne,
The quarry to cut out our corner-stone,
The Chosen Cloth to make His mortal weed,
Soil blest with fruit, yet freed from mortal seed.
In marriage-bands Thou ledst a Virgin’s life,
And, thou, untouch’d becam’st a fruitful Wife.
Tho’ Thou to aged Joseph wert assur’d,
No carnal love that sacred league procur’d,
All vain delights were far from your assent,
For chas’d by vow you seal’d your chaste intent.
Thus God His paradise to Joseph lent,
Wherein to plant the Tree of Life He meant,
To raise a birth miraculous, and by
His sacred ways of power disclose that hight
And holy Mystery, which Angels (tho’
So full of light) desir’d to look into.
When thou thy Maker didst bring forth, and he
Whose Age had been for all eternity,
Was born an Infant from Thy blessed womb,
He lay enclosed in that narrow room,
Whose greatness heaven and earth could not contain.
Who made the world, and nature did ordain,
Was made of Thy flesh; He whose open’d hand
Feeds all the creatures both by sea and land;
That even to thee thy life and being lent,
Did from thy breast receive His nourishment.
His birth no human tongues were fit to sing:
The angelic choir did greet their new-born King.
So bright a comfort and so sweet a lay,
Made night more cheerful than the day,
And little Bethlem with more glory fill’d
Than all the Roman palaces could yield.
How wondrous great is then Thy happiness,
That wert His Mother? But who can express
So high a bliss? When we desire to fame
Some other maid or virtuous woman’s name,
When we of other ladies write the lives,
Of chast maids, happy mothers, constant wives,
Such as best writers have renown’d of yore,
When we have told their noble virtues o’re,
We draw examples, and besides their own
Fair stories, and praise them by comparison.
But in Thy life we cannot; Thou alone
Canst not at all admit compasison.
So far Thy happy name and honour lives
Above all other mothers, maids, or wives,
That ’twere a sin, when we Thy story tell,
So much as once to think of parallel.
We’ll let Thee in Thine own pure titles live,
And speak no praise of Thee but positive;
As when we say, all ages, nations all
Shall thee most happy among women call;
That of the greatest blessing God e’re sent
To sinful man, Thou wert the Instrument.
London, 1686.
