Good Friday

GOOD-FRIDAY, 1613, RIDING WESTWARD.

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.

 

Thank you to Paul, Dean of Christ Church Cathedral, Montreal, for including so many of John Donne's deeply moving sonnets in this week's services, and giving me the incentive to go back and read others, and thank you to Vivian for telling me about the existence of this particular poem.

Comments

[Rachel Barenblat]

Beautiful.

[Jan]

Beautiful, Beth. Thanks for sharing.

[Ann]

The photograph is a perfect complement to the poem. It's a shame we can't hear again the lovely music we were privileged to share this afternoon. This has indeed been a "holy" week. My thanks to you and the other musicians for your devotion and skill which created such beautiful music.
Ann

[Kim]

Just read this earlier today. It doesn't surprise me a bit to find it here. Do you know this one:

http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/crossetti/bl-crossetti-goodfriday.htm

I read both of these today. How different they are.

[Uma Gowrishankar]

Beautiful poem,Beth. Thanks for sharing this here.

[Vivian]

oh beth my dear...just saw this morning (holy saturday) that you had posted the poem and so I did read it this time
i know the existence of many things not unlike this poem that I shirk/ shrink from intimate contact with...probably unwilling to have the 'rust' burnt off
...so I am also all tear faced at your picture of the cross with all its candles, all our prayers,
my prayer which I don't understand yet and have not discerned or don't know how to 'meet'
...so find it again a wonder how you show a way of meeting in your blog by coming towards us with these things