John Donne Poem

Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward

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Let mans Soul be a Sphere, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is
And as the other Spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motions, lose their own
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural! form obey:
Pleasure or business, so, our Souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl’d by it.
Hence is’t, that I am carried towards the West
This day, when my Souls form bends toward the East.
There I should see a Sun, by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget;
But that Christ on this Cross, did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare [‘almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for meet
Who sees Gods face, that is self life, must dye;
What a death were it then to see God dye?
It made his own Lieutenant Nature shrink,
It made his footstool crack, and the Sun wink.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes?
Could I behold that endless height which is
Zenith to us, and to’our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood which is
The seat of all our Souls, if not of his,
Make curt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God, for his apparel!, ragg’d, and tome?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
Who was Gods partner here, and furnish’d thus
Half of that Sacrifice, which ransom’d us?
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
They’re present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and thou look’st towards me,
O Saviour, as thou hang’st upon the tree;
I turn my back to thee, but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O think me worth shine anger, punish me,
Burne off my rusts, and my deformity,
Restore shine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may’st know me, and I’ll turn my face.

Holy Sonnet I: Thou Hast Made Me
Go and Catch a Falling Star


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