Henry Vaughan (1621–1695)

SAD, purple well! Whose bubbling eye

Did first against a murd’rer cry;

Whose streams, still vocal, still complain

Of bloody Cain:

And now at evening are as red

As in the morning when first shed.

If single thou

—Though single voices are but low,—

Couldst such a shrill and long cry rear

As speaks still in thy Maker’s ear,

What thunders shall those men arraign

Who cannot count those they have slain,

Who bathe not in a shallow flood,

But in a deep, wide sea of blood?

A sea, whose loud waves cannot sleep,

But deep still calleth upon deep:

Whose urgent sound, like unto that

Of many waters, beateth at

The everlasting doors above,

Where souls behind the altar move,

And with one strong, incessant cry

Inquire, ‘How long?’ of the Most High.

Almighty Judge!

At Whose just laws no just men grudge;

Whose blessed, sweet commands do pour

Comforts, and joys, and hopes each hour

On those that keep them; O accept

Of his vow’d heart, whom Thou hast kept

From bloody men! and grant, I may

That sworn memorial duly pay

To Thy bright arm, which was my light

And leader through thick death and night!

Ay! may that flood,

That proudly spilt and despis’d blood,

Speechless and calm, as infant’s sleep!

Or if it watch, forgive and weep

For those that spilt it! May no cries

From the low Earth to high Heaven rise,

But what,—like His whose blood peace brings—

Shall—when they rise—‘speak better things’

Than Abel’s doth! May Abel be

Still single heard, while these agree

With His mild blood in voice and will

Who pray’d for those that did Him kill!