Goodfriday, 1613. Riding Westward.

Et mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,

Lt

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 naturall forme obey:
Pleasure or business, so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the West

This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East. 10

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 l'almost be glad, I do not see

That spectacle of too much weight for mee.

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 turne all spheares at once, peirc'd with those holes?
Could I behold that endlesse height which is
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,

Humbled below us? or that blood which is

The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,

Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne?
If on these things I durst not looke, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,

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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 thine anger, punish mee,
Burne off my rusts, and my deformity,
Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face.

John Donne.

40

A Hymne to CHRIST, at the Authors last going into Germany.

N what torne ship soever I embarke,

tione any Arke;

What sea soever swallow mee, that flood

Shall be to mee an embleme of thy blood;

Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise

Thy face; yet through that maske I know those eyes,
Which, though they turne away sometimes,

They never will despise.

I sacrifice this Iland unto thee,

And all whom I lov'd there, and who lov'd mee;
When I have put our seas twixt them and mee,
Put thou thy sea betwixt my sinnes and thee.

ΙΟ

As the trees sap doth seeke the root below
In winter, in my winter now I goe,
Where none but thee, th'Eternall root
Of true Love I may know.

Nor thou nor thy religion dost controule,

The amorousnesse of an harmonious Soule,

But thou would'st have that love thy selfe: As thou

Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now,

Thou lov'st not, till from loving more, thou free

My soule: Who ever gives, takes libertie :
O, if thou car'st not whom I love
Alas, thou lov'st not mee.

Seale then this bill of my Divorce to All,
On whom those fainter beames of love did fall;
Marry those loves, which in youth scattered bee
On Fame, Wit, Hopes (false mistresses) to thee.
Churches are best for Prayer, that have least light:
To see God only, I goe out of sight:

And to scape stormy dayes, I chuse
An Everlasting night.

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John Donne.

Hymne to GOD my GOD, in

my

sicknesse.

SIn

Ince I am comming to that Holy roome,
Where, with thy Quire of Saints for evermore,

I shall be made thy Musique; As I come

I tune the Instrument here at the dore,

And what I must doe then, thinke here before.

Whilst my Physitians by their love are growne
Cosmographers, and I their Mapp, who lie
Flat on this bed, that by them may be showne
That this is my South-west discoverie
Per fretum febris, by these streights to die,

For, though theire currants yeeld returne to none,
What shall my West hurt me? As West and East
In all flatt Maps (and I am one) are one,
So death doth touch the Resurrection.

Is the Pacifique Sea my home? Or are
The Easterne riches? Is lerusalem?

Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltare,

All streights, and none but streights, are wayes to them, Whether where Iaphet dwelt, or Cham, or Sem.

We thinke that Paradise and Calvarie,

Christs Crosse, and Adams tree, stood in one place;
Looke Lord, and finde both Adams met in me;

As the first Adams sweat surrounds my face,
May the last Adams blood my soule embrace.

So, in his purple wrapp'd receive mee Lord,

By these his thornes give me his other Crowne;
And as to others soules I preach'd thy word,
Be this my Text, my Sermon to mine owne,
Therfore that he may raise the Lord throws down.

John Donne.

Ꮤ

To CHRIST.

Ilt thou forgive that sinn, where I begunn,

Which is my sinn, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive those sinns through which I runn
And doe run still, though still I doe deplore?
When thou has done, thou hast not done,
For, I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sinn, by which I'have wonne
Others to sinn, and made my sinn their dore?
Wilt thou forgive that sinn which I did shunne
A yeare or twoe, but wallowed in a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sinn of feare that when I have spunn
My last thred, I shall perish on the shore;
Sweare by thy self that at my Death, thy Sonne
Shall shine as he shines nowe, & heretofore;
And having done that, thou hast done,

I feare noe more

IO

John Donne.

A Hymn to my GOD in a night of my late