Goodfriday,1613. Riding Westward.
John Donne
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Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
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The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
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And as the other Spheares, by being growne
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Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne,
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And being by others hurried every day,
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Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:
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Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit
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For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
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Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the West
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This day, whẽ my Soules forme bends toward the East.
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There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,
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And by that setting endlesse day beget;
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But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,
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Sinne had eternally benighted all.
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Yet dare I'almost be glad, I do not see
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That spectacle of too much weight for mee.
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Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;
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What a death were it then to see God dye?
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It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,
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It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
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Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
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And tune all spheares at once peirc'd with those holes?
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Could I behold that endlesse height which is
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Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,
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Humbled below us? or that blood which is
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The seat of all our Soules, if not of his.
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Friday, 18 April 2014
Good Friday
Labels:
Spiritual life
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