The Bowells of the Earth my bowells [h]ide
Whilst these Dear relicks here interrd abide
Thus I die Living, thus alass mine Eyes,
My funerall see, since hee before me Dyes
Whom I brought forth my Dear Son here he Lies.
Clear up mine eyes hee Lies not here,
His Soul is he, which when his Dear
Redeemer had refin'd to a height
Of Purity, and Solid Weight,
No Longer would he let it Stay,
With in this Crucible of Clay,
But meaning him a richer Case,
To raise his Luster, not imbase,
And knowing the infectious Dust
Might Canker the bright piece with Rust,
Hasted him hence, into his Treasure
Of Blessed Spirits, where the Measure
Accomplish'd bee of the Elect,
They rest, and Joyfully expect
The image of our Lords perfection,
In the approaching Resurrection.