MEDITATION 45 1 PET. 5.4 YE SHALL RECEIVE A CROWN OF GLORY

A Crown of Glory! Oh! I’m base, its true.
  My Heart’s a Swamp, Brake, Thicket vile of Sin.
My Head’s a Bog of Filth; Blood bain’d doth spew
  Its venom streaks of Poyson o’re my Skin.
  My Members Dung-Carts that bedung at pleasure,
  My Life, the Pasture where Hells Hurdloms leasure.

Becrown’d with Filth! Oh! what vile thing am I?
  What Cost, and Charge to make mee Meddow ground?
To drain my Bogs? to lay my Frog-pits dry?
  To stub up all my brush that doth abound?
  That I may be thy Pasture fat and frim,
  Where thy choice Flowers, and Hearbs of Grace shine trim?

Vast change thus to subdue me: Wonders play
  Hereat like Gamesters; ‘bellisht Thoughts dresst fine,
In brave attire, cannot a finger lay
  Upon it that doth not besmut the Shine.
  Yet upon all this cost and more thou’rt at with me.
  And still I’m sad, a Seing Eye may see.

Yet more than this: my Hands that Crown’d thy Head
  With sharpest thorns, thou washest in thy Grace.
My Feet that upon thy Choice Blood tread
  Thou makest beautifull thy Way to trace.
  My Head that knockt against thy head, thou hugg’st
  Within thy bosom: boxest not, nor lugg’st.