Let man's soul be a sphere,
and then, in this,
Th' intelligence that moves,
devotion is;
And as the other spheres, by
being grown
Subject to foreign 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
whirl'd by it.
Hence is't, that I am carried
towards the west,
This day, when my soul's 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 too much
weight for me.
Who sees God's 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 spheres at once,
pierced 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 dirt 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,
Who was God's partner here,
and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which
ransom'd us?
Though these things as I ride
be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my
memory,
For that looks towards them;
and Thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang'st
upon the tree.
I turn my back to Thee but to
receive
Corrections till Thy mercies
bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger,
punish me,
Burn off my rust, and my
deformity;
Restore Thine image, so much,
by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and
I'll turn my face.
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