O blessed bodie! Whither art thou thrown?
No lodging for thee, but a cold hard stone?
So many hearts on earth, and yet not one
+++++++++++++++++++++Receive thee?

Sure there is room within our hearts good store;
For they can lodge transgressions by the score:
Thousands of toyes dwell there, yet out of doore
+++++++++++++++++++++They leave thee.

But that which shews them large, shews them unfit.
What ever sinne did this pure rock commit,
Which holds thee now? Who hath indited it
+++++++++++++++++++++Of murder?

Where our hard hearts have took up stones to braine thee,
And missing this, most falsely did arraigne thee;
Onely these stones in quiet entertain thee,
+++++++++++++++++++++And order.

And as of old, the law by heav’nly art,
Was writ in stone;  so thou, which also art
The letter of the word, find’st no fit heart
+++++++++++++++++++++To hold thee.

Yet do we still persist as we began,
And so should perish, but that nothing can,
Though it be cold, hard, foul, from loving man
+++++++++++++++++++++Withhold thee.