By John Donne
Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
that moves, devotion
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
to forraigne motions
, lose their owne
And being by others hurried every day,
in a yeare their natural! forme obey
e, so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
Hence is's, that I am carryed towards the West
, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
There I should see a Sun
ne, by rising set,
And by that setting endlesse day beget;
But that Christ
on this Cross
e, did rise and fall,
Sinne had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare 'almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;
What a death were it then to see God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature
It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And tune all spheares at once, peirc'd with those holes?
Could I behold that endless
e height which is
to us, and to'our Antipodes
Humbled below us? or that blood
The seat of all our Soul
es, if not of his,
Make curt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his apparel!, rag'd, and tome?
If on these things I durst not looke, durst I
Upon his miserable mother
cast mine eye,
Who was God
s partner here, and furnish'd thus
Halfe of that Sacrifice
, which ransom'd us?
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards mee,
, as thou hang'st upon the tree;
I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
s, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O thinke mee worth shine anger, punish mee,
Burne off my rus
ts, and my deformity
Restore shine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face