by John Donne
LET man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this,
Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is ;
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey ;
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it.
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west,
This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.
There I should see a Sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget.
But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for me.
Who sees Gods face, that is self-life, must die ;
What a death were it then to see God die ?
It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,
It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands, which span the poles
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes ?
Could I behold that endless height, which is
Zenith to us and our antipodes,
Humbled below us ? or that blood, which is
The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn ?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us ?
Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them ; and Thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.
I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,
Burn off my rust, and my deformity ;
Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face.
I used to swear that I would never enjoy the "intellectually and spiritually arrogant" Metaphysical Poets. Thanks to a class with Dr. Rice, I learned to see the beauty of metaphorical language and metaphysical conceits woven into each of these poems.
Each poem, like the one above, uses the complex imagery to draw the reader deeper into meditation. One cannot skim read a metaphysical poem and understand it well. For someone as easily distracted in prayer as I am, this form of verse helps me to apply my intellect and imagination to my reflection.
One of my favorite parts:
"Or that blood, which is / The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,/ Made dirt of dust" . . . what poignant imagery! Donne links the metaphysical reality of Christ's blood which is life-giving to us with the literal action of those precious drops falling and mixing with the dirt below to create mud. The image also reminds me of Christ's profound humility in stooping from His heavenly throne to mingle divinity with human nature (which is "dust").
May you have a holy and fruitful Triduum!
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