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THURSDAY IN HOLY WEEK, by                    
First Line: Griefe stay a while, to morrow wee
Last Line: Will make it selfe its reason prove.
Subject(s): Holy Week; Jesus Christ - Legends; Last Supper, The


GRIEFE stay a while, to morrow Wee
Will wait on Thee.
Now holy Joy must take it part
And cheare ye Heart.
Not all Hells furie can say nay,
For This is LOVES great Holyday.

And LOVE to day most nobly feasts
His faithfull Guests
Great is ye Cheer, as great as He
Could make it be:
If ye choise Dainties of all Heavn
Is this high Entertainment given.

For on ye royall Bord is set
Illustrious Meat
Whose noble composition is
Of Life & Bliss.
Meat, in whose pretious Mixture lies
Such Sweets, as Shame old Paradise.

Nor is't a drie Feast, here is wine
Purely Divine,
Blood of ye heavnly Grape, which God
Heer planted had:
A Cordiall Wine, which onely can
Truly cheere up ye Heart of Man.

For in ye crowned Bowle doth move
The Blood of Love.
LOVE his own dear Heart-Blood doth spill
The Cup to fill
With streams as rich & sweet as they,
Which all about Gods right hand play.

All Heavn is melted, & doth drop
Into ye Cup:
Which smiling there, invites each Guest
To come & taste,
Come taste, sayes LOVE, & drink in MEE
At one short draught Eternitie.

Sit downe, Dear Friends, & feast, sit downe;
All is your owne:
I came to dresse this cheer below
Onely for You:
No Angell shall intrude: this Fare
I did for humble Men prepare.

And must ye worst of Wormes, Vile Wee
Feast upon Thee
Immortall LOVE? Must all ye Cheer
Thou makest heer
Be spent on Wretched Beggars? Must
That pretious Cup be spilt on Dust?

Sure Thou art LOVE indeed, pure LOVE
Which dost not move
By Reasons rigid rules, but by
The Fervencie
Of its owne Fullnes. Royall LOVE
Will make it selfe its Reason prove.





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