Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward

¹Let man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this,

²Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is;

³And as the other spheres, by being grown

⁴Subject to foreign motions, lose their own,

⁵And being by others hurried every day,

⁶Scarce in a year their natural form obey;

⁷Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit

⁸For their first mover, and are whirled by it.

⁹Hence is 't, that I am carried towards the West,

¹⁰This day, when my soul's form bends toward the East.

¹¹There I should see a Sun by rising, set,

¹²And by that setting endless day beget.

¹³But that Christ on this cross did rise and fall,

¹⁴Sin had eternally benighted all.

¹⁵Yet dare I almost be glad I do not see

¹⁶That spectacle, of too much weight for me.

¹⁷Who sees God's face, that is self-life, must die;

¹⁸What a death were it then to see God die?

¹⁹It made his own lieutenant, Nature, shrink;

²⁰It made his footstool crack, and the sun wink.

²¹Could I behold those hands which span the poles,

²²And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes?

²³Could I behold that endless height which is

²⁴Zenith to us, and our antipodes,

²⁵Humbled below us? Or that blood which is

²⁶The seat of all our souls, if not of His,

²⁷Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn

²⁸By God for His apparel, ragged and torn?

²⁹If on these things I durst not look, durst I

³⁰Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,

³¹Who was God's partner here, and furnished thus

³²Half of that sacrifice which ransomed us?

³³Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,

³⁴They are present yet unto my memory,

³⁵For that looks towards them; and Thou look'st towards me,

³⁶O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.

³⁷I turn my back to Thee but to receive

³⁸Corrections, till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.

³⁹O think me worth Thine anger; punish me;

⁴⁰Burn off my rusts and my deformity;

⁴¹Restore Thine image so much, by Thy grace,

⁴²That Thou may'st know me, and I'll turn my face.