Classic Poem

Delight, much marvel, held my mind
aright to picture forth the Lamb;
best was He, blithest, and most to prize,
that e'er I heard in speech set forth.
So wondrous white was His array,
simple His looks, Himself so calm;
but a wound full wide and wet was seen,
against His heart, through sunder'd skin;
from His white side His blood stream'd out.
Alas! thought I, who did that hurt?
Any breast should all have burnt in bale,
ere it thereto had had delight