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, when 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
Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne?
If on these things I durst not looke, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye
Who was Gods partner here, and furnish'd thus
Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom'd us?
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye
They'are present yet unto my memory
For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards mee
O Saviour, as thou hang'st upon the tree;
I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave
O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee
Burne off my rusts, and my deformity
Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace
That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face