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Goodfriday, 1613. riding Westward. |
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Let mans Soul be a Sphear, and then, in this, |
The intelligence that moves, devotion is, |
And as the other Sphears, by being grown |
Subject to forraign motion, lose their own, |
And being by others hurried every day, |
Scarce in a year their natural form obey: |
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit |
For their first mover, and are whirld by it. |
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the West, |
This day, when my souls form bends to the East, |
There I should see a Sun by rising set, |
And by that setting endless day beget. |
But that Christ on his Cross, did rise and fall, |
Sin had eternally benighted all. |
Yet dare I'almost be glad, I do not see |
That spectacle of two[sic] |
Who see's Gods face, that is self-life, must die; |
What a death were it then to see God die? |
It made his own Lieutenant Nature shrink, |
It made his footstool crack, and the Sun wink. |
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles, |
And tune all sphears at once, pierc'd with those holes? |
Could I behold that endless height which is |
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes, |
Humbled below us? or that blood which is |
The seat of all our souls, if not of his, |
Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worn |
By God, for his apparel, ragg'd, and torn? |
If on these things I durst not look, durst I |
On his distressed mother cast mine eye,
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[CW: Who] |