Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, GOOD FRYDAY, by JOSEPH BEAUMONT



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GOOD FRYDAY, by            
First Line: But now ye sceen is chang'd, chang'd is ye day
Last Line: Who turnes ye crosse into so sweet a thing.
Subject(s): Crucifixion; Good Friday; Grief; Holidays; Holy Week; Pain; Jesus Christ - Crucifixion; Sorrow; Sadness; Suffering; Misery


BUT now ye Sceen is chang'd, chang'd is ye Day,
Chang'd from it selfe, & clad in strange array
Black as ye News it brings: A monstrous Night
Usurps th' amazed houres of banish'd Light,
Bidding ye Sun his revernd Eyes forbeare
And snatch all Heavn from our curs'd Hemispheare.
The World would not its God indure to see,
And why should Heavn to it unveiled be?
Let Night take Vengeance on that treacherous Noon
Which strives t' extinguish Heavns Eternall Sun.
Yet shall no cloud of Night or Shame forbid
Our eyes attendance: JESUS is not hid
To those, who know & love Him, & can spie
Ev'n on his Crosse his true Divinitie.
A glimpse wherof ye Thiefe with greedy Eyes
No sooner stole, but straitway He descries
This most abused & despised Thing
To be a most sublime & potent King.
And so had need to be, now Hell & Earth
Are with confederate malice marched forth,
And well appointed come into ye fight
With all ye furniture of warlike spight,
With swords, wth staves, wth whips, wth spears, wth thorns,
Wth threats, revilings, Blasphemies & Scornes,
Engins prepar'd on purpose to prevaile
Upon his Body, & his Soule assaile;
Engins enough against a Mortall Foe:
And might have conquerd Him, had He been so.
But He is their Almighty Friend, whose love
The whole Worlds armed Hate cannot remove.
He fights as well as They, & with more force;
Yet against Them bends not its potent course,
Nor thinks it can His Mighty Arme commend
With peevish Dust & Ashes to contend.
With Heavn He grapples, & by Valiant cries
Full in ye face of Gods great Justice flies.
Striving to stifle Vengeance, wch was now
Upon its March to tame ye World below.
O Noble Combat! Men incounter Him,
He wrestles with his God to rescue them.
Father, by all th' inchanting Powers wch lie
Treasur'd up in that Sweet Names Epitomie,
Regard ye Prayers of thy Dying Son
Who Dyes for what He prayes: Let me alone
Spend all thy Quiver, that no Arrow may
Be left, these poor unwitting Men to slay.
Hell has deceiv'd them; tis not They, but Hell
That kicks at Heavn. O let this Blood they spill
Wash their Mistake away, & wooe their eyes
To answer these my Wounds: O let my Cries
And sighs rebound from thine appeased Eare
Upon their Hearts, & raise a Tempest there
Of penitentiall sorrow; so shall I
See them begin to live for whom I die.
O blessed JESU, how wilt thou repay
Those, who shall love Thee, & thy will obey
If such delicious vengeance Thou dost take
On them, who both thy Laws, & Body break,
Who broach thy veins, & make Thee look as red
With blood, as they with Crimes are coloured;
Who having nayld Thee to thy Torments, crie,
Come downe, & save thy Selfe from Miserie.
O no, Thou wilt not come; tis not thine owne
Deare Life, which can perswade Thee to come downe.
Tis not thy selfe, but them yt mock at Thee
And at their owne prepar'd felicitie
Whom Thou desir'st to save: ye more their spight
Heightens their Crime, ye more thy Love doth fight
By mediating for them: thy desire
Is not to live longer then to acquire
Their Pardon, who are busily imployd
In murdering Thee, & their owne Soules beside.
Now therfore hang'st Thou as a Mark, wherat
All Tortures, Pains, & Pangs are to be shot.
For these Thou woo'st, & these are easily won
No Anguish but it seeks Thee out, not one
Inhumane shamelesse Torment, but can find
Some way to sting thy Body or thy Mind.
Judas his monstrous Fact, ye High Priests Sin,
The Peoples obstinate faults come flocking in,
Adams & Eve's Rebellion, every Crime
Which hath been hatched since ye birth of Time
Or which ye ending Worlds last minute shall
Be witnes to in one Black Tempest fall
Upon thy single Head: ye mighty Lord
Of ye Worlds Massy Pillars never stood
So heavy on ye Center, as on thy
Unpittied Heart this long Conspiracie
Of raging rampant Sorrow. Yet is this
Farre from ye Masterpiece of thy distresse.
Some comfort would it be if Heavn would now
A gentle & propitious aspect show.
But no kind beam peeps from ye lowring skie
To light so much as Hope: ye Fathers Eye
Is shut against ye Son; oh bitter News!
O who can help, if God to help refuse!
Well may thy desolate State, Sweet JESU, now
Unto thy Patience some complaint allow:
Well may thy wondring Greife thus Question make,
O God, my God, why dost Thou Mee forsake!
And we will wonder too, why Rocks & Stones
Deferre their Splitting, now such mighty Groanes
Rend all ye Heavns; & why ye Graves forbeare
To ope, & let thy trusty Friends appear
And rise in time, if not to rescue Thee
Yet to lend Pitty to thy Miserie.
Surely such Griefe as thine was never heard:
The whole world passeth by wthout regard,
Leaving its Pains to Thee; & Thou alone
Who need'st it most, find'st least Compassion;
Thou find'st not that, which Thou to all dost lend,
All are thy Foes, whilst Thou to all a Friend.
O King of Patience, may thy Copie be
Incouragement unto our Constancie.
Afflictions now are pretious Things, since they
Crown'd thy sweet Head, & in thy Bosome lay.
May Enemies be too weak to force us to
Hate them againe, whom thou hast loved so.
(Thy Noble love to them has made them prove
Well-worthy Objects of our poorer love.)
So shall we welcome scornes, & hug Disgraces;
So shall our Armes well practiz'd in imbraces
Professe ye best of Fencing which is by
All-patient Love to conquer Tyrannie.
So shall our whips & Thorns forget to Us
That ever they were steep'd in Bitternes;
And these ye Arrows, those shall be ye Cords
Which Divine Love to faithfull Hearts Affords.
So shall thy Noble Crosse to our esteeme
The Throne of Victory & Triumph seeme.
It was of old ye Cursed Tree, but Thou
By Death ye Tree of Life hast made it now:
A Tree forever verdant, wch doth spread
Its shade as far as Heavn its light doth shed.
With humble kisses, & with Tears of joy
May We acquaint with it, & let no Day
Pass wthout thanks to our delicious King,
Who turnes ye Crosse into so Sweet a Thing.





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