"'Tis he [Satan] that keeps the Soul in Iron Chains, / And robs her of all Sense; lest those great pains / She otherwise might feel, should make her cry / To be deliver'd from his slavery."
— Keach, Benjamin (1640-1704)
Author
Work Title
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed for J. D. by Christopher Hussey [etc.]
Date
1679
Metaphor
"'Tis he [Satan] that keeps the Soul in Iron Chains, / And robs her of all Sense; lest those great pains / She otherwise might feel, should make her cry / To be deliver'd from his slavery."
Metaphor in Context
But to proceed--how can my spirits hold?
I need Relief, my heart (alas) grows cold,
Whilst I with wonder look on what's behind,
Soul-melting pity overwhelms my mind.
Who can of such heart-breaking suff'rings hear,
And not dissolve each Eye into a Tear?
But, ah! methinks something doth intervene,
The thought of which puts me to as much pain,
As doth the sad, but useful Contemplation
Of his unhappy happy bloody passion.
Then let's retreat, and to the Garden go,
For in that place began his grievous woe:
Before he doth with th' King of Terrors fight,
Another King sets on him full of spight,
Whose powr's great, by cursed usurpation,
He domineers and rules o're every Nation;
He brings the Mighty down unto his feet,
And makes them all with rigour to submit:
The good, the bad, the wise, the old, the young,
The rich, the poor, the beautiful, and strong,
All that live, or e're liv'd, have worsted bin
By this proud lofty one, whose name is SIN.
A Bastard Devil of most monstrous Birth,
Begot in Hell, by Satan first brought forth;
Already you have of his Malice heard,
And how in wrath he never Mortal spar'd.
A crafty Foe, who oftner steers his course
In all his wars, by fraud than open force:
'Tis he that keeps the Soul in Iron Chains,
And robs her of all Sense; lest those great pains
She otherwise might feel, should make her cry
To be deliver'd from his slavery;
Unless our Jesus doth this Foe destroy,
The Soul he loves he never can enjoy.
He had with him before oft a hard Duel,
And worsted him, escaping all his cruel
Attaques, but rallying now with other Foes
He joyns, to lay on more impetuous blows.
Well may we dread here an amazing Fight,
For lo! with him confederate in our sight
The Wrath of God, most fearful to behold:
Both these sad Enemies, with courage bold,
Are making all the Head that e're they can
Against this blessed Prince, the Son of Man.
Oh! let our Souls be arm'd with courage bold,
Whilst we this furious Battel do behold.
Before the Fight begins, do you not hear
How he doth cry unto his Father dear;
O let this Cup from me, Lord, pass away,
If it be possible; Let it, I pray,
Pass from me, that of it I may not drink.
Until this time he never seem'd to shrink
From any pain, conflict, or suffering;
This Combat is, alas, a different thing,
From what before he ever met withal;
From hence he did unto his Father call
Once and again, repeating of his cry,
It'h sense of what was now approaching nigh.
Some may at this 'tis likely much admire,
That our dear Saviour should so loud desire
To be deliver'd from that bitter Cup,
Which was prepared for him to drink up.
It did not rise for his unwillingness;
But from the pain, the anguish, and distress
'Twould bring him to: this humane Nature's weak,
From thence he might such supplications make.
Ah! wrath Divine, what humane Soul can bear?
But of Divinity he hath his share,
Which doth again his fainting spirit chear.
And such support he needs--Cast but an Eye,
See how the Combatants with fury fly
Upon each other; What a Battel's here,
Enough to melt our Souls into a tear.
Lo! the first blow that Sin and Wrath doth give,
It is the worst he ever did receive.
Behold! how frightfully grim Wrath doth frown;
Nay, more, the Prince seems by their strength cast down.
Now Sin & Wrath upon him both do lie,
Which makes him groan, and bitterly to cry,
With panting breast, and half-expiring Breath,
My Soul is sorrowful, ev'n unto Death.
I need Relief, my heart (alas) grows cold,
Whilst I with wonder look on what's behind,
Soul-melting pity overwhelms my mind.
Who can of such heart-breaking suff'rings hear,
And not dissolve each Eye into a Tear?
But, ah! methinks something doth intervene,
The thought of which puts me to as much pain,
As doth the sad, but useful Contemplation
Of his unhappy happy bloody passion.
Then let's retreat, and to the Garden go,
For in that place began his grievous woe:
Before he doth with th' King of Terrors fight,
Another King sets on him full of spight,
Whose powr's great, by cursed usurpation,
He domineers and rules o're every Nation;
He brings the Mighty down unto his feet,
And makes them all with rigour to submit:
The good, the bad, the wise, the old, the young,
The rich, the poor, the beautiful, and strong,
All that live, or e're liv'd, have worsted bin
By this proud lofty one, whose name is SIN.
A Bastard Devil of most monstrous Birth,
Begot in Hell, by Satan first brought forth;
Already you have of his Malice heard,
And how in wrath he never Mortal spar'd.
A crafty Foe, who oftner steers his course
In all his wars, by fraud than open force:
'Tis he that keeps the Soul in Iron Chains,
And robs her of all Sense; lest those great pains
She otherwise might feel, should make her cry
To be deliver'd from his slavery;
Unless our Jesus doth this Foe destroy,
The Soul he loves he never can enjoy.
He had with him before oft a hard Duel,
And worsted him, escaping all his cruel
Attaques, but rallying now with other Foes
He joyns, to lay on more impetuous blows.
Well may we dread here an amazing Fight,
For lo! with him confederate in our sight
The Wrath of God, most fearful to behold:
Both these sad Enemies, with courage bold,
Are making all the Head that e're they can
Against this blessed Prince, the Son of Man.
Oh! let our Souls be arm'd with courage bold,
Whilst we this furious Battel do behold.
Before the Fight begins, do you not hear
How he doth cry unto his Father dear;
O let this Cup from me, Lord, pass away,
If it be possible; Let it, I pray,
Pass from me, that of it I may not drink.
Until this time he never seem'd to shrink
From any pain, conflict, or suffering;
This Combat is, alas, a different thing,
From what before he ever met withal;
From hence he did unto his Father call
Once and again, repeating of his cry,
It'h sense of what was now approaching nigh.
Some may at this 'tis likely much admire,
That our dear Saviour should so loud desire
To be deliver'd from that bitter Cup,
Which was prepared for him to drink up.
It did not rise for his unwillingness;
But from the pain, the anguish, and distress
'Twould bring him to: this humane Nature's weak,
From thence he might such supplications make.
Ah! wrath Divine, what humane Soul can bear?
But of Divinity he hath his share,
Which doth again his fainting spirit chear.
And such support he needs--Cast but an Eye,
See how the Combatants with fury fly
Upon each other; What a Battel's here,
Enough to melt our Souls into a tear.
Lo! the first blow that Sin and Wrath doth give,
It is the worst he ever did receive.
Behold! how frightfully grim Wrath doth frown;
Nay, more, the Prince seems by their strength cast down.
Now Sin & Wrath upon him both do lie,
Which makes him groan, and bitterly to cry,
With panting breast, and half-expiring Breath,
My Soul is sorrowful, ev'n unto Death.
Categories
Provenance
Searching "iron" and "soul" HDIS (Poetry); found again searching "chains"
Date of Entry
06/08/2005
