Good Friday: Rex Tragicus; Or, Christ Going To His Cross.

Put off Thy robe of purple, then go on     To the sad place of execution:     Thine hour is come, and the tormentor stands     Ready to pierce Thy tender feet and hands.     Long before this, the base, the dull, the rude,     Th' inconstant and unpurged multitude     Yawn for Thy coming; some ere this time cry,     How He defers, how loath He is to die!     Amongst this scum, the soldier with his spear     And that sour fellow with his vinegar,     His sponge, and stick, do ask why Thou dost stay;     So do the scurf and bran too. Go Thy way,     Thy way, Thou guiltless man, and satisfy     By Thine approach each their beholding eye.     Not as a thief shalt Thou ascend the mount,     But like a person of some high account;     The Cross shall be Thy stage, and Thou shalt there     The spacious field have for Thy theatre.     Thou art that Roscius and that marked-out man     That must this day act the tragedian     To wonder and affrightment: Thou art He     Whom all the flux of nations comes to see,     Not those poor thieves that act their parts with Thee;     Those act without regard, when once a king     And God, as Thou art, comes to suffering.     No, no; this scene from Thee takes life, and sense,     And soul, and spirit, plot and excellence.     Why then, begin, great King! ascend Thy throne,     And thence proceed to act Thy Passion     To such an height, to such a period raised,     As hell, and earth, and heav'n may stand amazed.     God and good angels guide Thee; and so bless     Thee in Thy several parts of bitterness,     That those who see Thee nail'd unto the tree     May, though they scorn Thee, praise and pity Thee.     And we, Thy lovers, while we see Thee keep     The laws of action, will both sigh and weep,     And bring our spices to embalm Thee dead;     That done, we'll see Thee sweetly buried.