By
John DonneLet mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
The
intelligence that moves,
devotion is
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
Subject to forraigne
motions, lose their owne
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a yeare their natural! forme
obey:
Pleasure or
businesse, so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
Hence is's, that I am carryed towards the West
This
day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
There I should see a
Sunne, by rising set,
And by that setting endlesse day beget;
But that
Christ on this
Crosse, did rise and fall,
Sinne 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 selfe life, must dye;
What a death were it then to see God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenant
Nature shrinke,
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
endlesse height which is
Zenith to us, and to'our
Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that
blood which is
The seat of all our
Soules, 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
Gods partner here, and furnish'd thus
Halfe of that
Sacrifice, which ransom'd us?
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
They'are
present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards mee,
O
Saviour, as thou hang'st upon the tree;
I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O thinke mee worth shine anger, punish mee,
Burne off my
rusts, and my
deformity,
Restore shine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my
face.