Nothing now to man is lacking;
All your triumphs now are ended,
And what Adam marred is mended,
Graves are beds now for the weary,
Death a nap, to wake more merry;
Youth now, full of pious duty,
Seeks in thee for perfect beauty;
The weak and aged, tired with length
Of days, from thee look for new strength;
And infants with thy pangs contest
As pleasant, as if with the breast.
Then, unto Him, who thus hath thrown,
Even to contempt thy kingdom down,
And by His blood did us advance
Unto His own inheritance,
To Him be glory, power, praise,
From this, unto the last of days!
HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695)
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| Peter Paul Rubens (about 1612) |
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