Epigrammatum Sacrorum Liber [A Book of Sacred Epigrams] (1634)
By Richard Crashaw
Richard Crashaw’s Book of Sacred Epigrams was published in 1634, the same year he graduated from the University of Cambridge. It is written in Latin — although translations have been provided — and focuses on a series of religious subjects, mostly musings on Biblical passages.
As an Anglican clergyman, Richard Crashaw showed an increasing tendency toward elements of Roman Catholicism — such as Marian devotion — which made British Puritans uneasy. Crashaw ultimately fled to France in 1644 during the English Civil Wars, and converted to the Catholic Church.
The following poems are excerpted from his longer 1634 collection.
V. Christus ad Thomam (Christ to Thomas)
Saeva fides, voluisse meos tractare dolores!
Crudeles digiti, sic didicisse Deum!
Vulnera ne dubites, vis tangere nostra: sed, eheu,
Vulnera, dum dubitas, tu graviora facis.
Harsh faith, and wouldst thou probe these signs of woe?
O cruel fingers, would ye prove God so?
Touch them, lest thou shouldst doubt? Then have thy will;
But, ah, thy doubting makes them deeper still.
LVI. In cicat rices quas Christus habet in se adhuc superstites (On the Still-Surviving Markes of Our Saviour’s Wounds)
Quicquid spina procax, vel stylo clavus acuto,
Quicquid purpurea scripserat hasta nota,
Vivit adhuc tecum; sed jam tua vulnera non sunt:
Non, sed vulneribus sunt medicina meis.
Each bloody, cruel character,
Thorn, nail, and spear had written,
When here, as man’s great Arbiter,
On Calvary Thou wert smitten,
Thou wearest still above, O Lord:
But now no longer wounds they are;
According to Thy Holy Word,
They med’cine for my wounds declare.
CXI. In resurrectionem Domini (On the Resurrection of the Lord)
Nasceris, en, tecumque tuus, Rex auree, mundus,
Tecum virgineo nascitur e tumulo.
Tecum in natales properat natura secundos,
Atque novam vitam te novus orbis habet.
Ex vita, Sol alme, tua vitam omnia sumunt:
Nil certe, nisi mors, cogitur inde mori.
At certe neque mors: nempe ut queat illa sepulchro,
Christe, tuo condi, mors volet ipsa mori.
Thou’rt born, and, lo, bright King, Thy world is born,
Is born with Thee from virgin tomb this morn
Hastes Nature to its second day of birth,
And a new life in Thee crowns a new earth.
Dear Sun, from Thy life all things draw life’s breath;
Nought thence is forced to die, save only Death.
Nor is Death forced—since in Thy grave to lie,
Death will itself, O Christ, be glad to die.
