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O, can that soul that loves her God, For very shame complain To any other than himself Of what she doth sustain? No way to him was ever found, Or ever shall there be, But taking up thy Cross, my Lord, Thereby to follow thee. This is the way, the truth, the life, Which leadeth unto heaven, None is secure, but only this, Though it seem ne’er so even. Those that do walk this happy path, Jesus doth company; But those who go another way Will err most shamefully. And in this way do not think it much, If thou dost here endure Suffering even by saints themselves, For God doth this procure. That thou may’st seek himself alone, And put thy trust in him, And not in any creature living, How good soe’er they seem. For suffering by the means of ill Would little thee advance; But to be censured by the good, Goes near to thee perchance. Alas, we show but little love, If we must choose which way Our Lord shall try our love to him, And not in all obey. We must submit ourselves to him, And be of cheerful heart; For he expecteth much of her That he gives Mary’s part; For she must bear a censure hard From all without exception; Yet thou, o Lord, will hear excuse Who art her soul’s election. If she will patiently sustain, And be to thee attent, Thou favorably will judge of her, Who knows her heart’s intent. For all but thee, as well she sees, May err concerning her; They only judge as they conceive, But thou dost see more far. Complain not, therefore, loving soul, If thou wilt be of those Who love their God more than themselves, And Mary’s part have chose. If all thou dost be taken ill By those of high perfection; And farther, if thou be accused To be of some great faction; Our Lord will answer for thee, if Thou wilt but hold thy peace; And if that he do think it good, If not content, surcease; Leave all thy care to this thy God, And him alone attend, Yet what is ill, reform in thee, And this will all amend. As far as he doth think it good, Who is most just and wise, For by afflictions he doth purge What doth displease his eyes. Will thou, of all that love thy God, From suffering be exempt? O no, but bless, as others do, Thy God, and be content. Amidst the several accidents, That do to thee befall, Commit thyself and all to God, Who seeks our good in all. Thyself art blind and canst not judge What is the best for thee; But he doth pierce into all things, How hidden soe’er they be. My heart shall only this desire: That thou, my Lord, dispose Of all things as thou pleasest best, Till these my eyes thou close By death, which I so much desire, Because it will procure Me to enjoy my God, my all, Where I shall be secure That none from me can take my Lord, But for eternity I shall enjoy my only good, And to him ever be United by a perfect love Which none can interpose, Being by thee assured then That him I cannot lose. O happy hour, when wilt thou come And set my spirit free, That I may love and praise my God With all perpetually, Contemplating his glorious face With all that him adore, Singing with them his sweetest praise For ever, ever more. My God the summum bonum is, Yea, all that’s good is his, And those that seek himself alone Of him shall never miss. In thee, my God, my soul shall rest, Not in created things; For thou alone, O Lord of Lords, True peace to spirit brings. All other things wished or desired, How good so’ere they be, Cause perturbation to our heart, Nor can we rest in thee Whilst we do pleasure take in them Contrary to thy mind, And nothing prospers we attempt, Whilst we remain thus blind. O God, the portion of my heart, Be thou my Lord for ever; In thee alone let me have part, And let nothing us sever; I do invite with all my soul All creatures thee to praise, And beg of thy celestial host To supply our delays. But praise thyself, my blessed God, Yea, for them all and me; For thou alone canst give what’s due Unto thy Majesty.
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