’Tis love, not years or limbs that can Make the martyr, or the man. - Richard Crashaw

If I were lost in misery
What was it to Thy heaven and thee?
What was it to Thy precious blood
If my foul heart called for a flood?
What if my faithless soul and I
Would needs fall in
With guilt and sin,
What did the lamb that He should die?
What did the lamb that He should need,
When the wolf sins, Himself to bleed?

Whoe’er she be,
That not impossible she,
That shall command my heart and me.

Souls are not Spaniards too; one friendly flood
Of baptism blends them all into a blood.
Christ's faith makes but one body of all souls,
And love's that body's soul; no law controls
Our free traffic for heav'n; we may maintain
Peace, sure, with piety, though it come from Spain.
What soul soe'er, in any language, can
Speak heav'n like hers is my soul's countryman.
Oh, 'tis not Spanish, but 'tis heav'n she speaks!
'Tis heaven that lies in ambush there, and breaks
From thence into the wond'ring reader's breast,
Who feels his warm heart hatched into a nest
Of little eagles and young loves, whose high
Flights scorn the lazy dust and things that die.