III
We cold and careless are, and scarcely think
Upon the glorious spring whereat we drink.
Did He not love us we could be content:
We wretches are indifferent!
IV
He courts our love with infinite esteem,
And seeks it so that it doth almost seem
Even all His blessedness. His love doth prize
It as the only Sacrifice.
V
'Tis death, my soul, to be indifferent,
Set forth thyself unto thy whole extent,
And all the glory of His passion prize,
Who for thee lives, who for thee dies.
VI
His goodness made thy love so great a pleasure,
His goodness made thy soul so great a treasure
To thee and Him: that thou mightst both inherit,
Prize it according to its merit.
VII
There is no goodness nor desert in thee,
For which thy love so coveted should be;
His goodness is the fountain of thy worth;
O live to love and set it forth.
VIII
Thou nothing giv'st to Him, He gave all things
To thee, and made thee like the King of Kings:
His love the fountain is of Heaven and Earth,
The cause of all thy joy and mirth.