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S. PHILIP, by                    
First Line: Twelve golden trumpets to proclaime
Last Line: Occasioned thy so happy state.
Subject(s): Christianity; Saints


TWELVE golden Trumpets to proclaime
The fairer & ye richer Name
Of JESUS, by Himselfe were chose,
In whose great Blast his Gospell goes,
And rowseth all ye World which lay
Loud snorting in ye face of Day:
That Day, whose Dawne at Bethlehem broke,
And thence its East all-glorious took
From a rare Virgin much more faire
And roseall, then the Maiden Aire,
Which wanton fictions finely framed,
And delicate Aurora nam'd.
One of these royall Trumps was He
Whose eccho this Festivitie
Yields back in praise: In vaine ye world
Some Nations hath in corners hurld
Almost beyond Humanitie,
Where banish'd & forgot they lie,
Living nor they, nor We know how
Fast Locked up in ice & snow:
Philip has fire enough to melt
More Winter then yet ever dwelt
About ye Pole, or friezed up
Barbarian hearts; no cold can stop
The most unconquerd fervencie
Of his Apostolike Charitie.
He hies him to ye North, ye place
Stamp'd with Proverbiall disgrace;
The Place, whence never Goodnes came,
And therfore Goodnes now doth frame
His journey thither: Philip there
Finds out a Clime well worth his care;
A Clime, where though ye boistrous Winds
Breathe endlesse Frosts, whose rigor binds
The captiv'd Sea & Land, & where
December walks through all ye yeare;
Yet are ye things yt should be Men
More stupid & congealed then
Their frozen Country, & will show
Farr Lesse relenting in a Thaw;
For Scythia's Clime in vaine contests
In point of Cold with Scythian Breasts.
These Breasts are they our Saint makes choice
Wheron to trie his Flaming voice.
Much Fire he spake, & spake so strong
That Conquests waited on his Toung.
The ice of Paganisme he brake
And there a generall Thaw did make,
By which ye Penitent floods did rise
In all ye Yielding Peoples eyes
The Heavnly heat of JESU'S LOVE
In their inlightned hearts did move,
Whose fertile warmth makes them grow high
In fruits of Christian Pietie.
Thus Scythia is flaming now
Ev'n In ye midst of all its snow.
Back turns ye Saint in holy haste
Whose great imployment was to last
As long's his life. In Asia now
A likelyer soile he strives to sow
His heavnly Fire: Hierapolis
His new selected Garden is.
But in this warmer Clime He finds
A colder Scythia; fiercer Winds
Oppose Him here, & strive to blow
Away ye Seed his Tongue doth sow.
No, here are Men, whose stomacks can
Never digest that God is Man;
Or if He be they scorne to change
Their ancient Jupiter for a strange
And feeble God, whose Crosse & Shame
Blast all ye Credit of his Name.
Nay come, say They, wee'l make of Thee
As good & great a Dietie:
We have a Crosse, & Nayles wherby
To inthrone thy upstart Majestie;
We have Contempt & Taunts enough
At thy despised Head to throw,
And trie if thou by Patience can
Approve thy selfe more then a Man.
And welcome all, says Philip, I
By these Proofs best shall testifie
I am his Servant, & dare give
My life for Him, by whom I live.
If you had let me ope ye way
Unto your Blisse, you could not pay
Me greater thanks then your blinde wrath
Freely for Me devised hath.
Goe then Undaunted Champion, goe,
Since thine owne Heart will have it so.
Drink deep, & quench thy Noble Thirst
In that brave Cup He drunk of first
What now Thou followst: Take thy fill
Of greatest Patience: & spill
That Blood which burnes so in thy veins
Loud Challenging all wounds & paines
To let it out, that Thou mayst pay
Thy Lord his Blood againe to Day
As Thou art able: So shall Hee
In his owne Colour seing Thee,
Thy freedome give to Thee above
In ye bright Citie of his Love.
The Citie of Delight & Blisse,
The truer Hierapolis.
Where we are sure Thou wilt not cease
Strongly to interceed for these
Unhappy Citizens, whose Hate
Occasioned thy so happy State.





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