‘Since I am coming to that holy room,
Where, with Thy Choir of Saints, for evermore
I shall be made Thy music, as I come
I tune my instrument here at the door,
And, what I must do then, think here before.
‘Since my Physicians by their loves are grown
Cosmographers; and I their map, who lie
Flat on this bed
‘So, in His purple wrapt, receive my Lord!
By these His thorns, give me His other Crown
And, as to other souls I preach’d Thy word,
Be this my text, my sermon to mine own,
‘That He may raise; therefore the Lord throws down.”