The earth, which in delicious paradise
Did bud forth man like cedars stately tall,
From barren womb accursèd by the fall
Doth thrust forth man as thorns in arm&eagrave;d wise,
Darting the points of sin against the skies.
With those thorns plaited was Christ's coronal,
Which crowned him then with grief, but after all
In heaven shall crown him, crown themselves with glory.
For with the purple tincture of his blood,
Which out the furrows of his brows did rain,
He hath transformed us thorns from baser wood
To raise our nature and odórant strain,
That we, who with our thorny sins did wound him,
Hereafter should with roseal virtues crown him.