by George Herbert
Awake, sad heart, whom sorrow ever drowns,
Take up thine eyes, which feed on earth,
Unfold thy forehead, gathered into frowns,
Thy Saviour comes, and with him mirth.
And with a thankfull heart His comforts take.
But thou dost still lament, and pine, and cry,
And feel His death, but not his victory.
Arise sad heart; if thou dost not witstand,
Christs resurrection thine may bee,
Do not by hanging downe breake from the hand,
Which as it riseth, raiseth thee.
And with His burial-linnen dry thine eyes.
Christ left His grave-cloths, that we might, when greif
Draws teares or blood, not want an handkerchief.