Silex scintillans, or, Sacred poems and priuate eiaculations by Henry Vaughan ...

The Sap.

COme sapless Blossom, creep not stil on Earth Forgetting thy first birth; 'Tis not from dust, or if so, why dost thou Thus cal and thirst for dew? It tends not thither, if it doth, why then This growth and stretch for heav'n? Thy root sucks but diseases, worms there seat And claim it for their meat. Who plac'd thee here, did something then Infuse Which now can tel thee news. There is beyond the Stars an hil of myrrh From which some drops fal here, On it the Prince of Salem sits, who deals To thee thy secret meals, There is thy Country, and he is the way And hath withal the key. Yet liv'd he here sometimes, and bore for thee A world of miserie, For thee, who in the first mans loyns didst fal From that hil to this vale,

And had not he so done, it is most true Two deaths had bin thy due; But going hence, and knowing wel what woes Might his friends discompose, To shew what strange love he had to our good He gave his sacred bloud By wil our sap, and Cordial; now in this Lies such a heav'n of bliss, That, who but truly tasts it, no decay Can touch him any way, Such secret life, and vertue in it lies It wil exalt and rise And actuate such spirits as are shed Or ready to be dead, And bring new too. Get then this sap, and get Good store of it, but let The vessel where you put it be for sure To all your pow'r most pure; There is at all times (though shut up) in you A powerful, rare dew, Which only grief and love extract; with this Be sure, and never miss, To wash your vessel wel: Then humbly take This balm for souls that ake, And one who drank it thus, assures that you Shal find a Joy so true, Such perfect Ease, and such a lively sense Of grace against all sins, That you'l Confess the Comfort such, as even Brings to, and comes from Heaven.