Classic Poem

Written of Good-friday.

All haile, most happie Day in blessed wise,
A Day of Griefe, yet Honorable Day,
In which the Father did (for Sacrifise )
Offer his Sonne , to save Man from decay:
 Clensing our Soules, defilde with sinfull mud,
 With Innocent , with pure and pretious Blood .

Upon that Crosse (now sacred ) then Prophane ,
He dide for us, who could not dye indeede:
Whilst closing his fayre eyes for Mortals gaine,
He opened all the Gates of Heaven with speede:
 Restoring them that Kingdome we had lost,
 Which nothing, Us, but Him, too dearly cost.

Not his, but our Due, was it, for to Die;
Those Torments which he meekly did endure,
His Crowne of Thornes, his Wounds done spitefully;
That Cursed Scourge that spilt his Blood so pure;
 All these, to Us, and not to him, did long,
 Yet for our sakes, our Christ himselfe did wrong.

Then if for pitie, Graves do open wide,
Hils cleave, and Marble pillars rent in twaine:
If Heavens themselves, their Lights for griefe do hide,
And if the Sunne for sorow clipst remaine:
 What Mortall hart is there that doth not breake,
 When he but thinks, or of this Day doth speake?