John Donne Poem

Resurrection, imperfect

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Sleep sleep old Sun, thou canst not have repast  
As yet, the wound thou took’st on friday last;  
Sleep then, and rest; The world may bearer thy stay,  
A better Sun rose before thee to day,  
Who, not content to’englighten all that dwell          
On the earths face, as thou, enlightned hell,  
And made the darker fires languish in that vale,  
As, at thy presence here, our fires grow pale.  
Whose body having walk’d on earth, and now  
Hasting to Heaven, would, that he might allow        
Himself unto all stations, and fill all,  
For these three days become a mineral;  
He was all gold when he lay down, but rose  
All tincture, and doth not alone dispose  
Leaden and iron wills to good, but is        
Of power to make even sinful flesh like his.  
Had one of those, whose credulous piety  
Thought, that a Soul one might discern and see  
Go from a body,’at this sepulcher been,  
And, issuing from the sheet, this body seen,        
He would have justly thought this body a soul,  
If not of any man, yet of the whole.  
 Desunt cætera



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