What strange unusual prodigy is here,
The height of day and yet no sun appear,
Nothing but darkness to be seen? what fright
Hath caused the day thus to be turned to night?
Sure th'old Chaos, or the Day of Doom,
Heaven, and earth's fabric to dissolve is come,
For so graves open, and in every street
The dead are seen to stand upon their feet,
Nor is the Temple safe, its veil in sunder
Is rent, by a prodigious clap of thunder,
And all disordered is: God's Son is dead.
No marvel then, the Sun doth hide its head.
Black death hath seized upon the God of light,
'Tis equal then day mourn in sable night.
Nor is it fit the graves should people be
With dead, when earth receives eternity.
The Temple's veil must rent in pieces be
Lest there should want a winding-sheet for thee.
Nor is 't a wonder that all things do lie
Disordered, and are sick when God can die.