Richard Crashaw (c. 1613–1649)

BELOW the bottom of the great Abyss,

There where one centre reconciles all things,

The world’s profound heart pants; there placed is

Mischief’s old Master! close about him clings

A curled knot of embracing snakes, that kiss

His correspondent cheeks: these loathsome strings

Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties,

Fast bound since first he forfeited the skies.

Heaven’s golden-wingèd herald late he saw

To a poor Galilean virgin sent;

How long the bright youth bowed, and with what awe

Immortal flowers to her fair hand present:

He saw the old Hebrew’s womb neglect the law

Of age and barrenness; and her Babe prevent

His birth by his devotion, who began

Betimes to be a saint before a man!

Yet, on the other side, fain would he start

Above his fears, and think it cannot be:

He studies Scripture, strives to sound the heart

And feel the pulse of every prophecy,

He knows, but knows not how, or by what art

The heaven-expecting ages hope to see

A mighty Babe, whose pure, unspotted birth

From a chaste virgin womb should bless the earth!

But these vast mysteries his senses smother,

And reason,—for what’s faith to him!—devour,

How she that is a maid should prove a mother,

Yet keep inviolate her virgin flower:

How God’s eternal Son should be man’s brother,

Poseth his proudest intellectual power;

How a pure spirit should incarnate be,

And life itself wear death’s frail livery.

That the great angel-blinding light should shrink

His blaze, to shine in a poor shepherd’s eye;

That the unmeasured God so low should sink

As prisoner in a few poor rags to lie;

That from his mother’s breast He milk should drink,

Who feeds with nectar Heaven’s fair family;

That a vile manger his low bed should prove

Who in a throne of stars thunders above.

That He whom the sun serves, should faintly peep

Through clouds of infant flesh: that He the old

Eternal Word would be a child, and weep;

That He who made the fire should feel the cold;

That Heaven’s high Majesty his court should keep

In a clay-cottage, by each blast controlled:

That Glory’s self should serve our griefs and fears:

And free Eternity submit to years.

Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD