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Goodfriday,1613. Riding Westward. |
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Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this, |
The intelligence that moves, devotion is, |
And as the other Spheares, by being growne |
Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne, |
And being by others hurried every day, |
Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey: |
Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit |
For their first mover, and are whirld by it. |
Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the West |
This day, whẽ my Soules forme bends toward the East. |
There I should see a Sunne, by rising set, |
And by that setting endlesse day beget; |
But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall, |
Sinne had eternally benighted all. |
Yet dare I'almost be glad, I do not see |
That spectacle of too much weight for mee. |
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye; |
What a death were it then to see God dye? |
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke, |
It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke. |
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles, |
And tune all spheares at once peirc'd with those holes? |
Could I behold that endlesse height which is |
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes, |
Humbled below us? or that blood which is |
The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
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[CW: Made] |