Lord, thy sweet Passion raised the dead from their graves, and they walked about; it opened hell-gates, the earth trembled wherewith, the sun lost his light, and my sorry heart, that is of the devil's kind, harder than the stones that clove at thy death; it may not of thy Passion a little point feel, nor I rise not with the dead in rush thereof, nor I cleave no as the Temple, nor as the earth tremble, nor open the closing that is so hard spered [shut up].

Richard Rolle: Meditations on the Passion.