Classic Poem

Now to this Lifelesse, yet Life-giuing Body
Returne my Soule; see, see, how like a Clod
He hangs, with gastly-grimme aspect, all bloody;
Ah who would weene this Man should be a God?
And yet what Man can doubt it, sith He died
As Man, for Men, that this God crucified?

What cheere O holy Marie , Gods deere Mother?
How fares thy Heart, transpiere'd with Sorrowes sword?
Thy Sonne is slain; yet sure there is none other
That kils, and straight reuiueth with a Word!
If He alone hath this almightie pow'r,
Doubt not but He himselfe, Himselfe will cure!

What! doe I doubt that thou a doubt do'st make
Of his reuiuall? O! I wrong thee much
If so I should; for, thy Faith cannot shake,
Sith it is stai'd by Gods vnshaken Touch:
Then, that thou should'st be thus, so woe-begon,
I see no cause, saue Natures course alone.

Nature will yerne, when monstrous minded Men
Prodigiously doe violate Her Lawes:
But when they wracke her selfe, what will shee then?
Will shee not mourne? to grieue, hath shee no cause?
Shee were vnlike her selfe, and her selfe foe,
If (toucht so neere) she were not toucht with woe.

Then, sacred Saint, thou must haue leaue to mourne:
Thy losse is great, although thy gaine be more:
Thy Heart must rend, to see thy deere Heart torne;
It needs must bleed, when Its so full of Gore:
If it be drie, through bleedings great excesse,
Would Mine, for Thine, might bleed, and neuer cease