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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] |