Here you will find the Poem Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward of poet John Donne
Let 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.